Scourge
by WalkingMassofComplexes
Summary: slash...Harry's reign comes to an end when his animagus form, the feared Tantalus, is summoned into another realm. He goes too far and is then locked away, sealed for all eternity – or so they think. He is awakened years into the future. More inside!
1. Prologue Birth of a Nightmare

Scourge – Prologue: Birth of a Nightmare

**TBL**: Hullo, my readers. I know I _really_ shouldn't be starting another fic, but this one was too tempting of an idea. I had wanted to write something for this challenge for a _long_ time before this plotbunny finally bit me. Anyway, I'm using a new writing style (complete with first POV), and I really hope you guys (and gals) like it. **However, if you're confused about it, just think of the words in italics between the dashes as substitutes for the next word(s) coming after them.**

And for Christ's sake, read the damn warnings.

**Summary**: I, Harry Potter, am a plague upon this world and into the next. Gods tremble before my might.

Harry's reign comes to a swift end when his animagus form, the feared Tantalus, is summoned into another realm. At first, he is confused and lost in this new world, but that is quickly overcome. He starts causing trouble, spreading his reach from the shadows. However, he goes too far and is then locked away, sealed for all eternity – or so they think. He is awakened many years into the future when an unsuspecting shinobi comes across a strange object. From there, it's only a matter of time before he starts anew in the game of power. Conquering this new world is his goal, and Harry won't let anything stand in his way.

I am the Scourge.

And I will bring the world to its knees.

**Challenge Taken**: No summary

-Harry/Male

-Harry's animagus form must be summoned into an alternate dimension in place of a demon

-It must be a dangerous animagus form that is uncommon i.e. try to be creative with it

-Can be a crossover, but put the story in the other show/book/etc. unless Harry Potter world eventually has a major role

-Harry must be dom

- Harry must be considered an "ancient" being when the bulk of the story happens unless it's a prequel to real story

-Harry must be powerful, but not God Like

**Challenge Issued By**: KingofLoosePages

**Warnings**: dark!evil!Harry (he's not nice by any standard), cannibalism (and a lot of it, not just some silly little implied thing), violence/blood/gore (it's going to _rain_ blood), language, slash, sex (maybe), mentioned hentai (it's inevitable), changed timeline, very dark plot (do you expect any less out of me?), crossover (no shit), character death, torture (not certain but very possible), male!Hermione (one of few, I'm sure), anything I can think of

**Pairing(s) (dominant to least dominant)**: Harry x Hermes (male!Hermione) x Ron

**Disclaimer**: I, Tainted Blood Lust, do not own neither the Harry Potter series nor Naruto. They belong to their respective owners. I _DO_, however, own this plot (sort of). Please, no stealing.

Also, the definition for 'scourge' is directly from Wikipedia's sister dictionary/thesaurus website. Therefore, it is not mine.

Enjoy.

X

SCOURGE

(_n._) a persistent pest, illness, or source of trouble, cause of suffering to people

X

**January 21, 1348**

I had had my first taste of flesh, first meal of _Nirvana_, at the tender age of nine.

I had been left out of –

_my own personal preview of Hell_

– my relatives' shambled abode, forgotten like the corpse of some poor stranger in the street.

_Life was cruel in that sad sort of way._

It had been over two weeks, the last few days spent in a pseudo-pleasant haze, at the time. The whole time, a part of me pondered on –

_why, why, **why**?_

– the harsh reality, that it really _wasn't_ a fairy tale ending. Of course, I had always known this, seen through unhindered eyes, but being sent out of 'my' (a term, a seemingly-granted possessive, that was used loosely) place to sleep –

_because 'living' couldn't be applied to staying there_

– was new to me, a punishment that lingered in the back of their minds yet had never come to fruition before. The Dursleys, my relatives and _minders_, had a policy regarding me that 'no care' could be considered 'basic care' and often denied me food, which, mixed with forced labor, was regarded as a punishment, my _rightful due_, for having an allegedly-demonic status. Thus, I was, in a sense, used to –

_painabusehurt and wantneedfood_

– the pathetic hand dealt to me by Fate, and when I was kicked out into the bitter cold of that January's weather, I was only a smidgeon surprised.

_There's always that one little piece of hope that refuses to go away, the undying remains of Pandora's box. Forever crushing it was a futile task._

At first, I looked for somewhere to –

_forget the world and its nasty claws_

– rest, being as exhausted as I was from –

_living_

– the day's chores, but it proved to be an impossible task, meant for those not lacking –

_someone who cared_

– a place to be. At the height of the Great Pestilence, God's punishment supposedly for mankind's evil –

_something that had always existed and always would, **alpha and omega**_

– there were dead, diseased bodies everywhere, an uncaring rat's feast.

_Strange how the rats died from not enough of a mind, while the humans died quicker of too much of a mind._

Mass burnings of the corpses, fires that sometimes resembled elemental Towers of Babel, could only do so much, as the toll grew too rapidly and spared no one. Thus, sleeping on the street, only two meters from a relatively new corpse, was my only option.

_And who paid attention to a starving child roaming the town?_

Hunger, that desperate longing so familiar to me, swiftly became an issue, gnawing at me more forcefully with each passing day. It had started –

_with my cursed birth_

– several days before I had been –

_shown a door leading from one Hell to another_

– kicked out. Finding food, _anything_ proven to be edible, was like finding –

_kindness in the world_

– a needle in a haystack, near impossible to find to the point where wild, irrational dreams started to look more likely. After a while, a pseudo-pleasant haze, the sort of glaze that clogs the senses and ravages the mind, fell upon me.

_**The effects of demonic powers**, the Dursleys would whisper._

Everything was dulled, and I had the sensation of –

_biting into flesh for the first, glorious time, perfection repeated over and over_

– floating on a cloud, disconnected from the world. The few healthy humans scurrying –

_like prey from the mere sense of a predator, its invisible presence looming ever near_

– down the streets began to morph, transforming into something different, a new _role_. The dark corner of my mind, one –

_that became a dear friend in harsh times_

– every human heard passionate, sinful whispers from, spoke to me then. Its soft suggestions –

**They're just meat in the end.**

– turned gradually to screams of devout faith to evils that always lingered –

**You have the power! _Take_ what you need!**

– that encouraged the shallowly-buried monster within me to rise up. It clawed its way to my conscious mind with little resistance, soon reminding me day and night of my _difference from the norm_. These yet-unnameable powers I held, an aptitude for fire and budding skills in **control**, even with their uncontrollable spurts, suddenly became viable options. With this revelation came –

_a long-lost sense of freedom_

– a rough plan to obtain nourishment.

Thus, I waited in the shadows of twilight, the bewitching hour when the world suddenly became that much more dangerous and the shadows seemed to _come alive_. I waited for the monstrous fire I had created to chase the town's widow out of her home. The small cottage burnt well –

_under the almost sentient flame, twisting and morphing from one creature to the next_

– with its highly flammable building materials. The fire also spread to a church next door under my direction.

_It was almost too easy to force something to one's heart's desire with only **will** and **power**._

The clergy ran out screaming, quicker to escape than the woman, my chosen meal. Their heavy robes restricted movement, and yet their frantic minds moved them on, on, _on_ without taking the garment off. One was too slow, a frail old man with skin stretched tightly over easily-shattered bones, and was lit aflame. The fire spread at an unnatural pace all over his body, seeking his destruction. Amused, I let it do so and reveled in the shrieks of 'deviltry.'

The woman, meanwhile, shivered in terror, staring at her home that was rapidly ceasing to exist in shock. It was –

_a delicious scene_

– the perfect time to strike. While the priests were –

_praying to their feeble, nonexistent God, hoping for a savior that would never come_

– distracted, I concentrated on forcing my will upon the widow, getting her to –

_meet her demise_

– go to a nearby alleyway, one nobody used anymore. She was laughingly easy to control, a wooden puppet for all her resistance. I made sure no one noticed her wooden, forced motions and the unnatural glow in her brown eyes (an unfortunate side-effect of controlling someone). It was easy, as everyone, the townspeople and clergy alike, was concentrating on the monstrous flames. As she came ever closer, I began to grin wildly and shake with –

_the need to kill, bite, **tear her apart**_

– an uncontrollable excitement. I wanted _so_ bad to feel the blood slipping down my throat, down my front in rushing rivers. I wanted to sink my teeth in a part of her – any part would do – and feel the flesh breaking. I wanted the taste of raw meat to fill my mouth, to crunch bone, and lick it all up at the end. I wanted my hunger to be **satisfied**.

And satisfied, it would be.

The seconds ticked by like hours as she completed her journey to me, and I swallowed excess saliva all the while, impatient to get started. Then, the widow stood in front of me at long last, eyes staring blankly ahead and mouth slightly ajar.

"**Die**," I whispered harshly, and it was a command that –

_damned her completely_

– could not be denied. Her –

_soul_

– heart abruptly ceased to work. There was a single moment of shock, surprise, fear in her eyes before the woman crumpled to the ground. I didn't bother to catch her; no one heard the thump of her landing.

I eyed –

_my prize_

– her for a brief moment, reveling in my feeling of victory, the afterglow of a job well done. I went forward, stumbling a bit in my inattention, with my entire focus on the woman. I got o my knees before her, almost in a certain sort of reverence. I got to my hands and knees, leaning forward to smell –

_the imaginary scent of an equally mind-only paradise_

– her lingering aroma and touching my tongue to her arm, tasting thoroughly.

_The general populous cringed away from what they considered filth. They were wrong. It was an **ambrosia**._

One more taste of sweet, sweet skin, feeling the –

_new drug that hooked without mercy and pulled with the strength of a thousand gods, all to the melody of a Siren's song_

– motionless muscle underneath, was enough of teasing myself before I finally sunk in my teeth, a young –

_beast, with razor-claws and a dangerous mind, bathed in wickedness_

– predator biting into that first self-caught kill.

The taste was indescribable in its perfection.

I hurriedly swallowed the chunk with little grace or chewing. Blood dripped down my chin, and not wanting to waste anything, I licked up what I could reach, hastily scooping up the rest with my hands to drink that too. A small moan, uncontrollable in its journey to the otherwise quiet air, escaped me, and a strange, new pleasure –

_heady and similar to the presence of the great monster lurking within_

– came over me. I would later learn it to be a powerful lust that erased all other feelings.

Every mouthful I took seemed greater than the last, fueling a reaction that kept building upon itself. In a wholly overpowering daze, I barely noticed the woman's arm disappearing. The only things left were bones, glistening with saliva and picked clean of muscle and sinew. Halfway through her abdominal area, the fog lifted a bit as my stomach announced its lack of vacancy. I had a sudden craving for –

_more, more, **more**_

– bones and thus stuffed what remained of a finger into my mouth. I easily crunched them with a strength that had hidden from even its owner. My eyes barely opened throughout the whole process.

_The world didn't revolve around a sun of fire. It was made of **blood** and demanding **urges**._

Also, a second, more subtle –

_butterfly-like transformation, an ascending of stages_

– change went on, unnoticed at the time. I would discover this several long years later, a most unexpected and _wonderful_ difference.

This was –

_the road to perdition_

– a birth, the beginning of Scourge – the world's worst nightmares collected and made reality. _This_ was the _true_ day of creation for me.

**Harry James Potter**.

X

END of Prologue: Birth of a Nightmares

**NOTES**:

"Towers of Babel": The Tower of Babel is a story in the Bible. Basically, these people (from Babel) tried to build a tower to heaven, and God didn't really appreciate that. Thus, he destroyed the tower and split the people up, making them all speak different languages so they couldn't understand each other and build a new one.

"Siren's song": A Siren is a creature in mythology that is sort of a mermaid-ish woman. They sing beautiful songs to get sailors to come near them in a trance and eat them when they're close enough.

**TBL**: Hope you liked it! If you did (or didn't), please give me some feedback (review or not). I love to know how I'm doing (good or bad). That said, I'm not going to hold chapters hostage for reviews or whatever.

On a different note, this is just the prologue, so the actual chapters will be much longer. Normally I wouldn't put out only the prologue without having finished the first chapter, but I like this one so much I thought I'd go for it.

The next chapters will be in the HPverse, detailing slightly tweaked versions of books one through four (I'll make them interesting though). It'll be one year per chapter. After that, I do a bit more of that universe for the background _then_ Harry'll go to the Narutoverse. I didn't exactly want to plan it that way in the beginning, but it's now an inevitable thing.

**The few. The proud. The strong. The reviewers. Be a reviewer today. Help your writer.**

_9/23/2011_

**EDIT (9/28/2011)**: Gave credit to issuer of challenge. XD Sorry about that!

**EDIT (10/10/2011)**: Changed the pairing (screw you, Kabuto...) and added the male!Hermione warning.


	2. Year of the Immortal

Scourge – Year of the Immortal

**TBL**: Hey, hey, hey (fat Albert)! :awkward cough: Yes, anyways... Welcome all to the first chapter of _Scourge_. Please do not touch anything during the tour – shit's poisonous here. And, if you didn't before, read the warnings from the prologue; they just might come in handy. Also, make sure you check out the **NOTES** at the bottom. They'll probably clear some things up for you.

Now hang on tight and remember to not piss your pants because it's going to be one bumpy ride.

**Disclaimer**: I, Tainted Blood Lust, do not own neither the Harry Potter series nor Naruto. They belong to their respective owners. I _DO_, however, own this plot (sort of). Please, no stealing.

Also, the definition for 'scourge' is directly from Wikipedia's sister dictionary/thesaurus website. Therefore, it is not mine.

Enjoy.

X

SCOURGE

(_n._) a persistent pest, illness, or source of trouble, cause of suffering to people

X

**August 21, 1351**

I was in the odd and colorful world of –

_reachable power, immense and godly in nature_

– witches and wizards: Diagon Alley. My –

_minder, chaining me already and just when the game had started_

– guide was a cheerfully oblivious giant named Hagrid, who was alienating in his stature. I could see those passing giving him looks of distaste, most presumably for his heritage, his _difference_.

_It was a senseless hatred, disgusting and pitiful. Real hatred should have **focus** and **purpose**._

This stain on perfection, this _vile_ behavior settled in the back of my mind like –

_the beast, but different, something that could not be cherished_

– molasses, thick and slow to remove itself. It was an ever-present reminder to –

_look over my shoulder, paranoia shifting through and changing my thoughts_

– me of the world's cruel disposition, even as I –

_evaluated_

– marveled at the Alley's many wonderful wares. 'Wares' could be defined in many ways, for mythical pets, potions ingredients, and sentient books counted just as much as –

_meat_

– the wizards. My imagination, a wild and insatiable creature, presented to me images of what I could be doing if even this society, to which it seemed no laws could apply, would accept me as myself.

_Their eyes told stories, grand epics of the human nature. Acceptance of freaks, as a result, was **taboo**._

Fire raged in my mind's eye, leaping and twisting in a dance lost to mere mortals. The wizards' silent screams privy only to me were beautiful, erotic prophecies of painful deaths.

_The first one to see me, flames –_

_**that I could almost **_hear**_, speaking in the tongue of demons_**

– _slithering about my body like numerous little snakes, was a woman accompanied by a young child. She held the face of my first kill, so fearful and filled with a permanent sorrow, and the child was a younger clone of her, a matured head on a youthful body making her look –_

_**like a myth, all hidden meaning and dark imagination**_

– _unnatural. They held twin expressions as I walked slowly closer, visages as those of a person in their last moments, ones begging for salvation from an inevitable death. With a single command, hissed in the ancient tongue of snakes, the fiery –_

_**legless dragons, evil incarnate sent to poison the maiden**_

– _creatures swirled down my form in a tornado then raced towards the two. Their eyes widened in tandem, one the shadow of the other, and they began to run, to attempt to _escape me_. Anger easily filled my soul, combined with a heady excitement to create a potent mixture, one that would later visit me time and time again._

_The duo was unable to –_

_**hide from me**, _their god

– _run very far, as the serpents gained ground at a rate reserved for –_

_**nightmares**_

– _creatures outside Mother Nature's realm. The serpents multiplied, and as they reached the woman and child, they transformed into a yajna cyclone, attempting to touch the Spirits with its sacrifice. It reached to the sky with a greedy fervor, sucking out –_

_**life**_

– _oxygen at a rapid pace. The two females burned quickly, skin blackening within seconds._

_**Watching a living being burn was **_intoxicating**_. Just one was not enough, even if only reviewed in the mind _**over and over again_**.**_

_Flakes floated off of the duo like an unholy snow, carried by the wind to my position. They blackened my face and clothes, a warpaint for murder. The muscle underneath was revealed next and sizzled, blood boiling into the air._

_The very _thought_ of blood being in my breathing air was ecstasy. It was absorbed into my being, a permanent memento of this moment._

_As the scent of –_

_**every malicious deity's grand feast**_

_pork filled the air, I suddenly wished I had left some portion un-torched and readily available to eat._

"'Arry," a voice called, deep and rumbling. Hagrid, the owner of said voice, broke me out of my –

_disconnection from reality_

– trance. It was slightly disconcerting to see that I was now –

_in real life again_

– standing in front of what was apparently a wand shop. It was a rather shabby place with windows so dirty no light shown through, and a sign hung above the door with barely-legible writing. I, not being very learned, sounded it out silently: _Ollivander's Wands_. Hagrid looked at it with a familiar sense of longing, and I could immediately tell the giant couldn't read those two words. I didn't feel pity but –

_a bottomless pit of hatred, dark and eternal_

– anger at the populous in general, at their denial of abnormalities. It was not for Hagrid's sake but was something to add to the list of humanity's wrongs.

_Justifications were unnecessary for loathing against humans. They were just excuses, made to dress up the truth: humans craved death. Some just followed their calling more than others, but this was seen as **wrong** and **evil**. A strange paradox, for sure._

I walked through the battered door first, leaving the giant behind to swim in the deep sea that is sorrowful thought. An invisible bell heralded my entrance, but I ignored the sound, focusing instead on –

_the beast, snarling wildly as it was and filled with a blood-colored haze that urged **tearing** and **fire** and **chaos**_

– a sudden alertness to danger. I froze, muscles tense and whole body ready for a fight.

_**Never** flight._

I sensed him seconds before the mysterious, otherworldly man emerged from the thick shadows, darkness clinging to his form like a fine mist, even in the dull light from a nearby torch. His eyes, every little part an opaque white, were staring straight _through_ me, and his ability to see was –

_the inverse of all that was natural and sacred_

– not questioned. We stared at each other, a contest of wills, and yet it was also an unnameable challenge. By what rules we played and their prize were –

_unimportant, as rules often were_

– unknown to me.

The moment was broken, however, when Hagrid –

_intruded_

– came in, a different bell tone announcing his arrival. He looked a bit bewildered at the palpable tension in the room but didn't say anything, thus stretching the absence of any sound. I normally didn't mind it, silence being _enjoyable_ in my opinion. Coupled with the dark, it should have been comfortable, even. However, the wandmaker twisted this into a mutated atmosphere, on the verge of uncomfortable.

Then, Ollivander broke the silence with a –

_warning, subtle but powerful_

– greeting. "Hello, Harry Potter."

If it were possible to stiffen even more, I did. My _name_ – how did he know my –

_identity, the only thing left of parents whom I imagined to be the greener grass_

– **name**?

_The beast growled, displeased and seething. It bared too-large dagger-teeth at its foe, a fellow predator._

I didn't reply in turn, though Hagrid gave one in a whisper, the atmosphere demanding it with an iron grasp on the throat. The wandmaker appeared to be unaffected.

"Let us get your wand, then," he said, and his voice held a gravely, low tone that put one on edge –

_predator or prey_

– with a single word. Thankfully, he disappeared into a back room and out of sight. I, in his absence, finally looked around at the store.

It was mostly filled with high shelves filled to the brim with ornate, wooden boxes. Each had a subtle magical aura, but together they emitted a strong, almost overwhelming pressure that weighed on the senses and made my neck hairs stand up. It was quite obvious they contained a wand each. Dividing the shelves and the small, open space we stood in was a long, waist-height counter with think dust coating it. Just as my eyes finished roaming the store, landing last on the few torches lighting the room with eternal fire, Ollivander came back with a black box made of some sort of crystal. It was –

_beautiful and intoxicating, singing out to me in a song that could reach only my ears_

– not very smoothed down, all dips and sharp points. My eyes were glued to it, focus entirely on what I knew to be –

_the tool that would change the world_

– my wand. My heartbeat quickened, and my breathing changed just the slightest bit, both –

_results of an ecstasy that transcended all else_

– uncontrollable reactions.

"Unknown dragon shell and half dementor heart core," Ollivander announced, as if from through a tunnel and –

_yet the beast roared, near and deafening, almost **tangible**_

– far away. I reached out with a viper's grasp, striking hard and fast, to grab _my_ wand. The moment I touched it –

_the beast rose up, mighty and awesome, more **present** than ever before_

– an electrical shock went through me, exhilarating and energizing. I slowly brought it to my chest, reverence in every move I made. Suddenly, my moment was interrupted when Hagrid shifted a bit towards my form. My head snapped to him, and in an unconscious gesture, my –

_teeth were bared, mentally and physically, a creature standing over a fresh kill, defensive and yet fully prepared to **harvest** more_

– eyes narrowed. A shocked look took a hold of the giant, and his subconscious –

_bowed out, sensing a great predator among the trees, cloaked then abruptly revealed_

– urges made him take a step back, an obvious and _empowering_ gesture.

The wandmaker broke the silence and interrupted the scene, saying, "May the Spirits aid you in your journey."

It was a strange saying, yet clear in its dismissal. My handle on my new wand tightened as –

_images, terrible and hateful things, filled my head with Ollivander's utter **destruction**_

– a dark emotion possessed me, fueled by –

_the beast_

– his disregard of **me**. Nevertheless, I glanced to a frozen Hagrid, tossing my head in a clear message. As oblivious as the giant was, he still got it and followed me out.

I could feel the wandmaker's eyes following me intensely, even after I exited the store.

X

**September 1, 1351**

The small, beat-up boat I was on swayed gently as it was propelled through calm waters and inky darkness by an invisible force. The air was still, proving the force to be a water-based Spirit. Accompanying me was –

_an intruder, one for once I couldn't **tear, shred, crunch**_

– some boy, bushy-haired and curious as to my existence. Despite –

_his pathetic excuse for a stalk that nevertheless held **potential**_

– his following me, though, he somehow wasn't an annoyance. It reminded me deeply of a newborn following its mother, seeking protection and advisement.

_Humans were all, in a sense, newborns following their mother. Some, those **transcended above**, could lead them and show them the way to **godliness**._

I hadn't gotten the boy's name, but in the scheme of things –

_names were just useless titles, the truly worthy **crafting** their own name_

– it wasn't important. He was now quiet, maybe basking in the presence of the _Boy-Who-Lived_ like so many wizards who craved to do so. Perhaps, though, he sensed –

_the beast_

– the atmosphere and the aura I held that _demanded_ silence. He was just like the rest if it were the first option, a _normal_ human being.

_Normal, a relative term, was something to be loathed. It meant one was a follower, sheep led by the ram. To rise above, to become the ram, was to be **revered**._

The Boy-Who-Lived subject was disgusting. Yes, I had survived Voldemort's Killing Curse, and was the only to do so in history. Yes, his rising empire had been halted. But was change something to be hated?

I could respect Voldemort for being –

_a monster, so very much like me_

– the proverbial ram, a leader of the masses. My future held a similar –

_transformation_

– rise to power, _I was sure._ Every wizard expected me to be a figurehead and –

_I was, just not in the way it was expected_

– an opponent for him. He was more than an opponent to me; he was a **rival**.

The gasps of every student around me broke me out of my thoughts, and looking up, I saw they were all gazing at Hogwarts, not too far ahead of us.

"_Beautiful_," I heard one of them whisper. Beautiful? I criticized the castle with a harsh eye. To me, it seemed –

_used, thrown away by its wizards and left to decay over time, an abandoned child destined to die in time_

– a bit dark and gloomy, the lit windows doing little to help this. I spotted several toppled over towers, the chunks of stone lain about the grass like misplaced organs. Still, it held an incredible power, probably due to the highly magical ground it was built upon: a long-gone shrine that had been dedicated to Minerva.

The boats soon hit the shore, signaling our journey's end and the edge of Hogwarts' inner wards. Hagrid stepped out, and holding a hand twisted into a certain symbol up, he murmured a long spell under his breath. I didn't catch any of it, but the effect was clear. The wards suddenly became visible, a transparent lavender wall, and then on entrance cut itself into it. There was a flash of the image of some goddess high on the wards, her pose of one praying.

"Well, go on!" Hagrid urged, looking a bit strained at the effort to do a spell without a wand. The students were finally spurred into action, scurrying like timid mice through the hole. Hagrid went last, the wards immediately filling in the hole and going invisible again after him.

X

"Granger, Hermes!" the professor, a stern, old woman named McGonagall, called out into the silence of the Great Hall. Everyone's eyes, most drooping in boredom and showing an impatience for the feast to begin, tracked the boy, as did mine, for he was one of the few that held –

_potential, raw and begging to be smoothed out_

– my interest.

_There were few here – that much was very, very obvious – that could be shown the way. It was rather disappointing. Quality before quantity, though._

The boy, the one from the boat, nervously tip-toed up to the high, wooden stool and sat down before McGonagall placed the ratty old hat on his head. His last visible expression before the hat obscured his face was one of shock with veins of fear running through it. I wondered what exactly went on during the sorting to provoke such a reaction. Perhaps the magnitude of such a powerful and ancient artifact did that.

After several minutes, the magical aura, visible to few, flared, and a seam opened up like a mouth, teeth just below the surface, to scream out his house.

"RAVENCLAW!"

McGonagall pulled off the once-again still hat, and Granger went off to the politely clapping table. A faint wind lazily whirled around his form, and his robes colored themselves a navy blue, while the crest also changed, forming into the Ravenclaw eagle.

The rest of the sorting until my turn took a while, even with the low amount of students to be sorted, and I kept only half an ear on it.

_It was a separation, a system meant to mold students into convenient little roles. The houses were barriers in the children's minds, uncrossable walls not worth the effort. The less they stuck together, the less things changed – divide and conquer._

"Potter, Harry!" the old witch called. I caught a hint of –

_involvement, a necessary duty for a reason not yet known_

– interest in her eyes. The rest of the school was less subtle, most straightening up for –

_the wrong reasons_

– the Boy-Who-Lived, their living idol. They were still silent, though, as years of discipline had trained them. A thousand or so different pairs of eyes were directed at me, the collective gaze very intense.

I walked to the stool with an air of confidence and –

_the beast growling in pleasure at the challenge ahead_

– my head held high. I sat on the stool with the grace of a noble, and before the lowered hat covered my face, I gave them them all a look that signified my superiority.

**Quite the mind you've got here**, a voice, rumbling and dark, sounded in my mind, echoing in that way powerful beings tended to use.

_The beast rose up swiftly, furious and just a tad bit curious. It bared its teeth in warning. All others were powerless, for **this** was its domain._

The voice chuckled and announced in a whisper, **ah, something I have not seen in quite some time**.

I got the feeling it was giving a crooked little smile, its amusement dark.

**Such a hard one to sort**, the hat said, and I knew that it was thrilled at the prospect instead of disappointed. It made a 'tsk' sound a few times. **Slytherin or Gryffindor for this one? It's such a hard decision...**

Slytherin or Gryffindor, it didn't matter to me, quite frankly. Either way –

_I would continue to rip, maim, kill and to get what I wanted, **one way or another**_

– my rise was assured.

The hat laughed again, as if privy to my thoughts. It randomly said, **such fire...**

Briefly, the image of shifting fire wrapping its claws around the widow's house entered my mind before it was suppressed.

_The beast twined itself around its domain like a basilisk, fatal eyes daring anyone to enter._

**You'll do well**, the hat said, and I got a sense of smugness. **Set aflame the world from – GRYFFINDOR!**

The last part was yelled aloud to the crowd, and I caught the end of it as the hat was lifted off of my head, the world making itself known once more. I hopped off and went to the excitedly clapping table, all of whom looked about ready to stand up and cheer. A few of the first years were wildly gesturing for me to –

_indulge them_

– come over, but I ignored the fools. As I sat at a section near the doors, the steady, strong flames that had been surrounding me finally extinguished, but I could sense their reluctance to leave. My crest had changed to the Gryffindor symbol, a golden lion composed of fire, and my robes to a deep crimson that –

_reminded me strongly of raw flesh, pulsing and ready to be devoured_

– was a rather nice color.

The table quieted down after several glares from the professors, and I was glad for it. The rest of the sorting passed without much excitement. Still, I eyed Ron Weasley closely; the Slytherin was sure to be one of interest.

X

**October 13, 1351**

Classes had been going by quickly so far. They were easy at this point, even if they had been getting progressively more difficult. Magic just seemed –

_far too easy to **bend**, to **shape** with my will_

– to come naturally to me, a fact my peers were envious of. To make it worse, I read many, many books, earning a dubious position in Gryffindor, as they, as a general rule, loathed books.

_No knowledge would be hidden, no matter the cost. Knowledge was power, and power lead to **godliness**._

The Gryffindors, being sorted as thus because their main element was fire, were a temperamental bunch. Thus, they had ostracized me without much of a thought. The rest of the houses seemed disinterested after the hero worship wore off, something that provoked contradicting feelings. On one hand, I deserved to be –

_worshiped_

– remembered; on the other, they, in the end, were mostly insignificant, undeserving maggots. Though, while they ignored me, I didn't ignore them, especially those that had interested me on the first day.

_One such boy had turned out to be a failure – name: Draco Malfoy. His true personality had been revealed in time, and it was a disgusting thing. His inevitable and eventual elimination would be wondrous._

Currently, I was in Potions class, brewing by myself. There was an odd number of children in the joint Slytherin-Gryffindor class, and almost automatically, I had been left to make that day's potion on my own. It, though enjoyable, was a slow-going class, as a potion always required a decent amount of time to brew. Still, the results were worth it, making me want to create –

_vile concoctions spoken only of in back alleys in the dead of night, forbidden things with infinite possibilities and power_

– some on my own time.

I was broken out of my thoughts when I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. A flash of yellow-white assured me it was Draco Malfoy's doing. A stray ingredient not on the list for today, a rooster heart to be exact, soon came flying toward my cauldron. The intent was clear to me, as I knew it would explode my current brew with the faint possibility of it releasing a fatal, invisible gas. As entertaining as that would be, I was still in the room, and thus, not having –

_an empire, my visions for the future, **the world in flames**_

– a death wish, I caught it, squeezing tightly, as it was slippery with spell-preserved blood. The crimson liquid began to flow down my arm and stain my hand, so I brought it out of cauldron range. Catching Malfoy's eye, I, unable to help myself with such a temptation, licked a path up my wrist, tasting the slightly spicy blood of a rooster. His eyes widened in a familiar fear, and I could –

_hear his inner thoughts of terror in my imagination, sense his nature: **prey**_

– tell he would think twice about doing something like that again.

Snape looked up right after my display and seeing the heart in my hand, immediately swooped over like a vampire descending upon a victim.

"_Mr_. Potter," he whispered in a dark tone, "_what_ do you think you're doing?"

I spoke bluntly, "Draco Malfoy threw this at my cauldron, and I caught it."

He stayed silent for a moment, and I could see –

_his battle of wills against his own mind_

– the conflict within his eyes. Snape had an obvious prejudice against me, for reasons probably best left untouched. He always tried to put me down and make a fool of me in front of my peers, though I was –

_above that, their matters of a lower importance, and a budding hyena amongst the masses of antelope_

– too intelligent for that. Some of his insults amused me in their level of mediocrity.

_Such a pathetic, pitiful man he was._

However, anyone with a brain (or even half of one) could tell that potions were his life and that mistakes in his classroom were not to be tolerated. And Malfoy had crossed that line. Finally, Snape made up his mind and turned to Malfoy, a thunderous expression on his face. The boy paled.

"Mr. Malfoy, is this true?" The Slytherin, wanting to save his own hide, immediately denied it in a suspicious manner. There was a minute of eye contact between the two, and a second-long look of irritation crossed Snape's face. Malfoy turned away first.

"Stand," Snape commanded. Malfoy didn't move, eyes darting around the classroom to each student's face, looking for some sort of help. None answered him. His eyes landed last on me, and –

_the beast took on the guise of Harry Potter_

– I gave him a predator's smile. Snape repeated his command with a bit more force, and the boy stod up on shaky legs. Snape stalked over and got in his face.

"Throwing ingredients," the professor whispered then took a small pause, "_is __**unacceptable**_."

He whipped out his wand and flicked it quickly while saying, "Devourer of Souls, judge this weighted and damned offering! Your mighty rage attacks with teeth and claws – come swiftly!"

I felt the rush in power, the rapidly dropping temperature before the red light actually shot out to hit Malfoy.

_It was a preview, a short window into the world of deities with power beyond mere mortals. That was something that should be, **would** be harnessed. Such did not belong in the hands of Spirits._

The students blanched to a sickly color when the boy fell to the floor with a high-pitched, tortured scream. His body spasmed there in a violent manner, eyes rolling to the back of his head. It continued for several minutes, the screaming not stopping once. Finally, it ended when Malfoy banged his head a bit harder against the stones, knocking himself out in a bloody mess.

Throughout the whole thing, I had remained –

_pleasantly tingling with a concealed pleasure_

– fascinated and alert, searching for every last detail. I soaked it all in, especially Malfoy's _pain_. As I watched, I vowed to myself to find out more about such spells.

Unconsciously, I licked my lips at the delicious, imagined scenarios that conjured.

X

**October 31, 1351**

The whole of Hogwarts, professors and students alike, was in the Great Hall, eating supper. I was tearing into some bloody steak myself, pretending it was Malfoy.

Then, Quirrell, the Light Arts professor, ran in, slamming the doors open with a loud bang. He had a panicked look on his face, one of terror and desperation.

"_Troll_!" he shouted, waving his arms in the air madly in incomprehensible gestures. "Troll, _troll_! It's there – in the dungeons!"

After that, he screamed –

_at an invisible image in his head, looming over common sense to overshadow it_

– in fright – and fainted abruptly. The student body, despite their discipline, created full out chaos. The majority stood up, whether in order to escape or for bravery. Some rushed about for whatever reason. I just sat and continued to eat, calm as ever.

"**SILENCE!**" Dumbledore yelled over them, gaining just that immediately. He gave us an extremely disappointed look. He eyed us all up in –

_a calculating_

– an annoyed way. The headmaster continued, "Swiftly – and _calmly_ – go to the Safety Room. All first year students, please follow your respective Head of House if you do not know the way. The remaining professors shall deal with the problem. Do **not** leave the Safety Room until such orders are given."

The students, with nervous expressions, then did just that after a bit of that confusion that came with such a large crowd. I shuffled behind some older Gryffindors, absently noticing Quirrell was nowhere to be seen, a suspicious occurrence to be sure. Some first year Slytherins passed by, gossiping all the way. Normally, this wouldn't interest me, and I did indeed tune them out. However, something filtered through that immediately had me stopping in my tracks.

"I can't see Weasley here again." A snicker. "He must be wandering about."

"I hope so. Bastard should be killed by the troll, hopefully..."

Weasley was missing? My eyes narrowed, thoughts racing through my mind. Decision made, I abruptly changed direction to sneak off away from the herd; I had to protect my interests.

X

It took a while to find Weasley, especially with what little information I had. He turned out to be in a bathroom on the fourth floor, far away from –

_help, the inhabitants of Hogwarts as they huddled together in fear_

– the Safety Room. I entered it to hear suppressed sobs coming from one of the stalls by the far wall. I stopped at the entrance, contemplating how to go about this.

And then, there came a rumbling from behind me and down the hall, heavy footsteps hitting stone. There was also a sound like something big was being dragged.

My eyes narrowed to green slits, body slowly –

_transforming into the beast_

– turning to face that direction. A growl, primal and low, issued from my throat at the sight that greeted me: the troll. My attention focused on it, and I vaguely noted the sobbing noises ceasing.

"Shouldn't have come here," I spat out, voice –

_that of the beast's, its control exerted over my body_

– deep and gravely. The troll, an oblivious creature lacking in intelligence, finally spotted me, and it let out a deafening roar, a battlecry.

_It repeated from within the beast's domain, a more horrible and terrifying noise that chilled to the bone._

It lumbered toward me, going as fast as its tree-trunk legs would carry it. Still, it was slow, and I had to wait for it to be in optimal range. As soon as the troll crossed that –

_boundary between life and death_

– invisible line, I called out a spell, one I had only read of, it being advanced for my age. "Vulcan, forge thy sword and thrust it thus into the vat of eternal fire! Your enemy is lanced from Olympus with the wrath of a thousand wicked suns!"

The spell, intended to create a moderate blast of fire, instead formed a yellow-white lance made entirely of –

_godly power_

– fire above my head. And though it didn't harm me, I could feel its intense heat, hotter than any forge I knew of. This only lasted for several seconds before an unseen hand threw it forcefully, leaving it speeding towards the troll. The lance hit without sound, piercing through thick hide as the lance were material. The creature stopped abruptly and looking down, was uncomprehending. It reached out a massive hand to touch the weapon with a puzzled expression.

Then, it exploded, erupting in a giant sphere of expanding flames. The force of the resulting wave of air pushed me back a fair bit. I closed my eyes against the blinding white light that accompanied it and was left unseeing a minute after that. When my sight returned, I could see –

_another thrilling death at my hands, beauty made tangible_

– that the troll had been torn in half by the explosion. The two pieces had split just under the sternum, and rib bones poked out like spears from the top part. From the bottom part, intestines spilled out like ragged, discarded ropes. Other organs lay spread about, scattered far by the spell's force. Blood pooled in a large lake around the dismantled corpse, and buckets of it had been splattered on the walls and floor. There was a small patch of it just before my feet, not quite touching yet wholly eyecatching.

_Thirst hit like a sledgehammer, demanding a life, that crimson liquid flowing freely from a severed head and just **begging** to be lapped up._

A shocked gasp intruded upon my thoughts, reality coming back into focus. I turned slowly, eyes blazing with –

_bloodlust and that high that accompanied a successful kill_

– rage, to face who I immediately knew to be Weasley, even without seeing him. He had the look of one shocked to the core and terrified for his life yet still disbelieving of the obvious truth, pale and shaking. His cerulean eyes were as wise as they could go, eyebrows disappearing into his hairline.

I opened my mouth to comment but was interrupted by the sound of footsteps hurriedly falling on stone. Thinking quickly, I grabbed Weasley and pulled him to the shadows of one of the bathroom's corners. Just in time, it seemed. I pushed both of us closer to the corner, narrowed eyes examining –

_the bastards that dared **intrude**_

– Severus Snape and Narcissa Malfoy, the Dark Arts professor. They were conversing in harsh whispers, despite the apparent lack of witnesses.

"-heard that this is _his_ fault." Malfoy gave an unladylike growl, frustrated at whatever the matter was.

"It cannot!" Snape almost roared in his rage, just barely keeping it down. "_He_ is **gone** – destroyed! Not coming back!"

He was huffing with repressed emotions, and I could tell he was close to a breakdown. I wondered at just who could get unflappable Snape to degrade like this.

"Do not rule out anything," his fellow co-worker spoke cryptically. He fell silent, a troubled expression contorting his face. They then finally glanced upon –

_my art_

– the troll, quickly turning grave.

"This was done by a student," Snape stated, a subtle, bitter loathing coating his voice.

"Perhaps," Malfoy replied, and she knelt down to get a closer look without touching it. Her face scrunched up in disgust as the smell became more pungent. Nevertheless, she shifted closer and sniffed the dead troll. She observed, "Smells like ozone, and the flesh looks burnt in some places."

"Fire Arts, then," Snape said mostly to himself as he took on a contemplative look, lost in his thoughts. Malfoy stood up and turned to him.

"Let us report to Dumbledore," she suggested, breaking Snape from his pondering. He eyed the troll one last time before he absently nodded. He led the way, cloak billowing behind him like some black ghost. Malfoy followed, and they were out of range quickly. After that, I emerged from the shadows, pulling a slowly recovering Weasley with me. I turned on my heel sharply to face him, face contorted into a dangerous expression. I had my wand out and pointed at him, and he grew pale as he saw the tip glowing –

_with the color of his potential death_

– red.

"_You saw __**nothing**_," I whispered darkly into his ear. I then grinned –

_with the face of the beast_

– viciously, and Weasley nodded frantically in response. I let him go, stepping back with that grin still dominating my face. He hastily ran off, and I watched him with a predator's gaze the whole way.

X

**December 22, 1351**

It was the Winter Solstice, and most of the students had gone home to celebrate. It was unsurprising that the wizarding population observed this instead of Christmas. After all, the Christians were the biggest persecutors of my kind, and having a party in honor of this Christ man, the whole reason for the persecution, was a certain kind of heresy, a betrayal to wizard brethren.

_Cannibalism was another kind of treachery, and to the whole of humankind. It was one **far** more enjoyable, though._

I would rather not return to the Dursleys any time soon –

_as I would be likely to murder them in a most brutal way, something that this early was far ahead of schedule_

– and thus was staying at Hogwarts for the time off from schooling. During my stay here, I had been freely exploring the castle in more depth, as I had only seen a limited amount so far, not having much time to spare normally. It was an easy task to avoid being caught wandering after hours (students were forbidden to be out of their common room or bed after the sun had been fully engulfed by the night). The shadows helped greatly in this.

_The shadows almost seemed sentient, powerful monsters lingering in this plane, chained and unable to express their rage. They held favorite mortals, clinging to the form with a deceptively caring touch._

I was currently wandering in a hallway that held empty rooms filled with various knickknacks, forgotten by all and left to degrade. I looked into a room on occasion, not wanting to peruse them all because of their massive quantity. So far, I had found nothing of interest. I was about to go back and give up on this section of the castle but then decided to check out one last room.

I walked in the small space with low expectations. In it, however, I found –

_something deceitful in nature, an otherworldly portal to the deepest recessives of my heart in a guise wholly unsuited to it_

– a mirror, taller than me and surrounded by a pure gold frame. It was had a simple beauty about it with no elaborate etchings on it, just simple vines creeping up the sides. The mirror itself was a shiny black with little ability to reflect. Dark violet, smoky swirls lazily drifted about in the black, barely visible. Above it, a strange set of seemingly nonsense words was written in fancy cursive.

**Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.**

I wondered what they meant, if they were –

_a line meant to enchant, drawing in the unwary with a call unlike any other_

– in another language or simply letters thrown together. I said them aloud slowly, unsure of the –

_results_

– pronunciation. As soon as the last syllable left my lips, the mirror suddenly began to clear, a regular glass color spreading out from the edges and rapidly taking over the black region. The purple swirls sped up their dancing then vanished in the blink of an eye. I stepped forward out of –

_a strange, magnetic compulsion_

– curiosity. A meter away, I could see my reflection in it, but there was something –

_evil lurking in its depths, a perverted parody of all things natural and right_

– wrong with it. Proving this, my mirror image moved on its own, like a demon trapped in there with the ability to mimic life. It first grinned with shark's teeth, three rows of razor-sharp triangles predicting death.

_The beast just bared its own teeth back, taking this as the challenge it was._

Its mouth closed with the smile remaining on red lips, and I wondered how they all fit. It lifted a wickedly clawed hand to wave hello, a disturbing glint in unnatural green eyes. Then, it mouthed something, all through that grin.

**Your heart's desire.**

Suddenly, the image changed, now showing –

_a fantasy of mine, **depraved** and **delicious**_

– my inverse crouched down low to the bottom of the mirror, hunched over something. I quickly realized what that something was – the bloody corpse of my first kill. She had chunks missing in the shape of a mouthful, rows of teeth marks on the flesh. After ripping off another one, my inverse looked up as it was crunching the raw meat and swallowing it down. Its face was a mess, bits of the woman littering it to the background of skin completely painted with crimson. It lifted its face to stare upward at something and silently laughed. I could hear the chilling sound echoing in my mind.

My lips twitched at first as it continued on, wanting to form an identical grin. I let it do so with a sinful delight simmering in my eyes. A bubble of demented laughter escaped me, and quickly, a full-blown version developed. It bounced off of the room's walls, creating a cavernous effect.

I stopped abruptly as my bloodthirst, before growing slowly but steadily behind the scenes, hit me like a monsoon, sweeping me along with a swift, monstrous force. My craving for flesh, ever-present beneath the surface, now snarled and dug in with fishhook claws.

I would not deny it.

X

I was in the Forbidden Forest, having run here after my interaction with the –

_demon-infused portal_

– mirror. I was silently stalking for a meal, looking for a substitute for a human, as that option was unavailable to me. So far, I had found small things, like rabbits, and unreachable birds sitting high in their posts. I froze several minutes into my quest, hearing a horse-like snort to my left. I turned to that direction and stealthily moved forward after whispering a barely audible spell to turn myself temporarily invisible and soundless.

"Neith, the sacred hunt begins with your given gifts. Sight and sound are veiled as the master approaches the prey, bow at the ready."

As I got closer, I saw what it was: a unicorn. It was –

_pure and untainted by the world, a rare delicacy to the corrupted_

– a shining white, luminescent in the moonlight. Its mane and tail were a gray-silver, flowing lightly in the night's gentle wind. A spiraling golden horn sat atop its head, pointing toward me as it grazed on the grass below. Large eyes, all white and having the guise of being blind, roved around slowly. However, they darted around quickly as the unicorn raised its head in sudden, startled alertness. I, having apparently crossed the line into its awareness, ceased movement.

_All except the motion of a tongue licking thin lips, hunger in mind._

The creature neighed, moving about nervously and stamping its hooves in agitation. Obviously, it sensed –

_the beast not bothering to hide its presence, waiting patiently for the reward_

– me, the lack of purity in my soul. As its confusion and movement increased, I knew I had only one chance at this and that it was _now_. I hastily devised a half-baked plan, unfortunately not having very much time to work out the details.

Taking full advantage of my invisibility and silence, I rushed forward, grabbing the unicorn's mane before it had a chance to do anything and used it to hoist myself unto its back. Immediately, it panicked and bucked to attempt to dislodge me. I gripped the handful of its mane with one hand, the other holding onto the horn, in order not to be flung off. The instant my hand wrapped around the gold spiral, the unicorn let out a long, disturbing –

_cry to the Heavens, full of despair and askance for a help that would never come_

– wail and struggled even harder. I was barely hanging on now and furiously cursing the fact that I couldn't get out a spell like this. Then, an idea, terrible and grand, came to me.

With all my might, I pulled at the horn, making the creature wail again.

_The beast helped freely in this task, excited at the prospect of what was to come. Its strength seemed a bottomless pit, comparable to the Spirits._

Harder and harder I pulled until it broke at the base, leaving only jagged peaks. The unicorn's eyes rolled in the back of its head, and time seemed to stand still as I quickly reversed my grip on the detached horn and drove it with that same strength through –

_innocence_

– the unicorn's skull into its brain. The tip skewered to the underside of its jaw with little effort, leaving a few centimeters sticking out on wither side. Blood, a strange opaque white color that _shined_, flew out in an inevitable spray, coating the creature's head and myself. It fell in clumps to the ground in thick rivers that started at the top to join the gushing wound below. Some of it had landed on my mouth, and I reached out my tongue to taste –

_the product of my damned deed_

– its sweetness. The blood tasted of –

_ambrosia_

– sugar with a hint of something spicy, the flavor exploding on my taste buds. As I jumped off the unicorn when it began to fall, I _knew_ I needed to have more. I immediately set upon the corpse, eagerly sinking my teeth into its meaty flank. The blood had tasted better than the meat, but both still ranked in the top five best flavors. Even the fur did not bother me, the fine hair like the sweetest honey.

_A feast fit for the greatest of kings._

I ate with an insatiable hunger, something coming from –

_the beast_

– deep inside. It seemed as if my stomach were a bottomless pit, forever craving _more_. However, this was denied to me when I heard shouting from not too far away with the sounds of someone hurriedly tearing through the forest accompanying it. With a barely audible snarl, I abandoned my meal, knowing they were coming straight my way. My spell had worn off by now, and it would not do to be seen. Thus, I swiftly and expertly made my way up an ancient tree to perch in a sturdy branch.

That someone turned out to be two people – Snape and Quirrell to be exact.

"W-why did you w-want to meet h-_here_ o-of all p-places?" Quirrell asked in his usual stutter, and I could see from my position that he was terrified beyond belief. For what reason remained to be seen. He was following Snape, who suddenly stopped his fast-paced walking to turn around to face Quirrell. The Light Arts Professor, not being prepared, bumped into him, paling as he hastily backed away. His whispered apology was ignored.

"I thought we should make this a bit more _private_ meeting," Snape replied in a promising tone, a demented little quirk of the lips briefly appearing. It dropped in favor of a grave frown as he took in the unicorn's corpse, having finally walked into the clearing where my meal lay. He muttered something inaudible under his breath, looking faintly worried. Quirrell, upon catching sight of it, let out a small scream.

"It's d-dead!" he whimpered, brown eyes darting to Snape's form. The other man gave him a wry look that clearly stated that Quirrell was being obvious.

"Yes," was all he said as he crouched down to get a better look. He eyed the bite marks with curiosity and puzzlement, fingers reaching out but not quite touching. Quirrell looked ready to say something in objection but then closed his mouth when Snape got up. Ignoring the unicorn now, he turned to the other professor, all seriousness. He asked a seemingly random question, "Did you know that someone has attempted to steal the Philosopher's Stone, Quirrell?"

At this, the mentioned professor became –

_calculating, something dark hidden deep in his eyes coming to life and taking notice_

– nervous, hands absently twisting together in a classic gesture.

_Quirrell's fear was a strong smell in the beast's nostrils, bringing excitement to it._

"O-oh, they h-have?" Quirrell asked –

_in perfect imitation_

– timidly, not once looking up.

"_Yes_," Snape hissed darkly, stalking closer to the other man. He continued in a low whisper, "I have my suspicions, Quirrell."

He leaned in, mere centimeters from the other professor. "And I have my eye on you. Every time you sleep, eat, and _shit_, I will be _watching you_."

Quirrell then finally looked up, this time gazing directly into Snape's black eyes with –

_that deeply hidden thing revealing itself for those precious few seconds, issuing its challenge_

– a different perspective, personality apparently flipping. In a quiet tone that spoke of danger and playing with fire, he replied, "_You're welcome to try._"

The Light Arts professor gave Snape his own demented little grin, somehow managing to make it _more_. And with that, he turned around, heading towards Hogwarts at a swift pace. Snape glanced one more time at the unicorn behind him, silent in the aftermath and contemplating of this new twist. He followed after Quirrell several minutes later, disappearing into the dark of the forest with naught a sound. I watched him the whole time, shifting minutely on my branch in interest.

Just what _was_ this Philosopher's Stone?

X

**May 31, 1352**

Immortality – _that's_ what the Philosopher's Stone was.

I had finally found –

_the beginning of my dreams made reality, the first tool required to build my empire_

– this out by sneaking into the Restricted Section of the library (a quarantined collection of books that were of a higher level and more _sinister_ in nature) at night. It had been a small reference in a tiny book entitled _Secrets of the Divine_, easily missed. This had been the only mention of the Philosopher's Stone in the whole library (as evidenced by my Locating Charm), and though it was small, it was a goldmine of information. From what I had learned, it was a –

_godly_

– peculiar stone made by Nicholas Flamel that secreted what was known as the Elixir of Life, a liqiud that somehow provided immortality after being ingested. It also turned lead into gold, something that wizards had been puzzling over for centuries apparently.

_The allure of the Philosopher's Stone was strong, and it was so near, **within grasp**. With greedy claws and eyes, the beast craved._

However, it was, quite obviously, hidden from the students. I had briefly wondered what such an item was doing here, away from its creator, but dismissed it for the most part. Still, a side of me calculated in its dark corner, looking for –

_the motives of Dumbledore, the most likely suspect in allowing the Stone to be housed here_

– possible reasons.

In my search for it, I had first used a Locating Charm, an attempt that failed. I figured there was a ward blocking it to prevent something like this, as it was a student's spell. It was worth a try, nevertheless. I had searched the library for information on anti-tracking wards after that, not having the time (or patience) to manually search the whole castle for a sign of the Stone. Listening in to another Snape and Quirrell conversation was also out of the question, being way too risky.

Luckily, there was a potion called the Locating Potion that could circumvent anti-tracking wards. However, the ingredients for it were a bit difficult to obtain. It had taken me until the middle of March to get them all, and it had been completely brewed just today.

I grinned in twisted delight as I walked down the hall to my next class, and students avoided the sight with a few frightened expressions.

_The beast bared its teeth as well, a far more dangerous display._

It was time to hunt.

X

I was filled with –

_bloodthristy anticipation and fantasies of the violent variety_

– a cold, numbing feeling radiating from my stomach, a magical ice. It came from –

_knowing someone was ahead, their magical aura easily giving them away, an unwary prey_

– the potion I had drunk earlier after solving the word puzzle. It was the last in a series of 'challenges' set up by the professors in order to guard the Philosopher's Stone. They had been ridiculously easy, and I highly suspected Dumbledore had had a hand in this. There was _no way_ these could possibly keep a full grown wizard away. They were obviously designed for a dim-witted first year. I was highly disappointed.

I shook my head to rid myself of my thoughts and then walked through the border of indigo-purple fire separating me from –

_immortality_

– my goal. The flames, reaching the ceiling, had blocked my sight before, but now I saw a small, almost empty room with only two things filling it: Quirrell and that –

_demonic portal_

– mirror I had found in December. Quirrell was muttering to himself, eying the mirror in an angry consternation. He seemed not to have noticed me yet, so concentrated on it as he was.

_Images of the possible ends for Quirrell flashed by. One in particular stood out, a vision of slowly **peeling his skin off** section by section._

With a decidedly sinister grin, I stepped forward and announced my presence by calling out Quirrell's name. He calmly turned around, revealing that he had known I was here all along. His face was neutral and carved of stone, but brown eyes raged silently.

"Potter," he stated, a sickeningly sweet smile slowly being birthed into existence, "what might you be doing here? This isn't a place for-"

I cut him off silkily, "The same reason _you're_ here, no doubt."

That smile was abruptly aborted. His stare intensified, but I matched it –

_with the beast's basilisk stare_

– perfectly. Suddenly, his whole demeanor changed, just like that night in the Forbidden Forest. He gained a look that clearly said he had some big secret to tell me.

"I sense something in you, boy," Quirrell said with a bare hint of wonder in his tone, "yes, yes, I do. I'm sure of it."

I didn't tense, even if his suspicions were –

_beyond my understanding at the moment, a wicked and powerful revelation just waiting to be unearthed_

– correct. He wouldn't be leaving this room alive; I would make sure of it. With no witnesses and just the two of us, it was only a matter of time before –

_I had my fill_

– his demise. Still, I knew he would put up a fight, and that winning a fair duel with a full grown wizard would be, at this point, relatively improbable. Good thing I didn't follow the rules.

"Do you?" I asked with a vulpine grin, starting to –

_circle like a shark scenting blood in the water_

– move around him in order to herd him to a better position. Quirrell, to my delight, followed my lead to keep an eye on me, wholly unaware of my plan. By now, we both had our wands out and at the ready by our sides. This fight for the Philosopher's Stone was inevitable, and both of us knew it would be to the death.

And, finally, he stood where I wanted him to: in front of the mirror. He started to say something, and using his distraction, I quickly raised my wand to point in that direction. He had good reflexes, I admitted, but they were not enough. His wand was halfway to being leveled at me, but that was as far as it got. In an impressive feat for a first year, I cast my Blasting Curse silently, aimed at the fragile glass behind him. The effect was impressive, to say the least.

The reflective surface bulged solidly for a split second, as if there were some force trying to prevent it from breaking. Then, it burst into a thousand little pieces, each deadly in its own right. As Quirrell had no chance to dodge the shards, they flew hard and fast into his back, digging in deep. His screams were Nirvana's call after so long without such.

He fell –

_from the possible position of **winner**_

– to the ground, falling hard and undoubtedly bruising something with _that_ landing. He struggled through the pain in a somewhat admirable effort to regain the wand he had lost grip on while falling, hand shakily searching in an almost blind manner and getting cut up in the process. I walked over with a smug expression, and just before his fingertips touched the wand, I brought down a foot on –

_his hopes and dreams, his sole chance of survival_

– the questing hand. Hard. I delighted in the sound of breaking bones, the fragile yet oh so necessary things snapping like twigs under –

_the beast's **rage** that held no depth, infinite in its reach_

– my strength. I chuckled, a low and foreboding sound that spoke –

_of my victory and a thousand things both vile and nasty_

– volumes.

"Now, now," I whispered, "none of that."

Quirrell growled in impotent anger, having been defeated by a mere _boy_. I ground my foot into his already broken hand, and the growl ended in a pathetic whimper. Satisfied, I took my foot off and crouched, leaning in to put my lips next to his ear. This added a bit of _intimacy_ to the scene and set the mood just right.

_There were shivers of a demented elation. Killing was meant to be **personal**._

"Game over, Quirrell," I breathed excitedly and then licked my lips in anticipation. I continued, "You should remember me, _etch_ the name of your executioner into your mind permanently. **Harry James Potter**."

With a quick motion, I pulled out the knife I had stolen from the Dursleys from my robes and sunk it deep into his forehead.

_That first unicorn being impaled by its own horn was replayed. Whoever said history repeated itself was very correct in this. **It was welcome to do so**._

Quirrell's eyes widened for a split second before he slumped limply in death. I immediately lapped up the blood flowing from the fatal wound, feelings reaching a new high. It had been _so_ long since my last taste of this. However, the cloud starting to envelop my mind receded when I noticed something on the floor behind him, an island in the middle of glass.

The Philosopher's Stone.

X

**June 1, 1352**

Albus Dumbledore, back from his meeting that had lasted the previous day and this morning, strode with a surprisingly fast pace to the wall of flames. He dispelled it with a few waves of his wand and a four-line incantation.

"The God King's fire stolen has been taken to the mortals. The Great Pyre burns those who wield it with unworthy hands. Punishment comes on wings of gold with a beak of unending hunger! Let the flames die in justice's wake!"

Snape came in mere seconds later, a subtle worried look upon his face. He walked in to the sight of Dumbledore standing as still as a statue, wearing a hard look and eyes cold and serious. He was staring at the Mirror of Desire and the small sea of glass at its base, at the black abyss that the glass had previously covered. And he stared at the space void of what should have been there: the Philosopher's Stone.

Snape's gaze stayed with the headmaster for a moment before straying to Quirrell's body among the shards. It was hard to tell how old the corpse was, but he guessed about one or two days, three at the most. What made this so difficult to identify was the fact that Quirrell had been almost completely deprived of his skin, revealing raw muscles to dry in the stagnant air. Only his face remained, mocking the two with Voldemort's snake-and-skull symbol carved into his forehead. Somehow, his lips had been curved into a mock-happy smile after death and stayed that way. Brown eyes seemed to stare directly at Snape, glazed and questioning.

There were small bite marks on the muscles and parts missing, as if someone had _eaten_ him. The thought of it made him queasy, the man's hand twitching in his efforts to hold back the action of it wrapping around his stomach. Snape averted his eyes, unable to look any longer. He had seen some pretty horrible, nightmarish things in his time as a spy for Dumbledore against Voldemort, but _this_...

"I suspect," Dumbledore began in a grave tone, "Voldemort is behind this."

Snape wanted to deny this with conviction, _believe_ that Voldemort had not risen again. But, deep in his black, black heart, he knew that the Dark Lord had something to do with this. Still, his gut feeling, instincts he had learned to trust, told him this was not the whole truth, that the puzzle was incomplete. With years of training born of necessity, he managed to clamp down on his emotions, not voicing anything in response.

"Yes," Dumbledore said, agreeing with his own theory, "he was attracted by the Stone and his obsession."

He did not name this obsession, but they both knew all too well what it was: immortality. After all, 'Voldemort' meant 'flight from death' in French – a fitting alias.

"Then," Snape suggested after a moment of silence, "should we take action?"

"No, I should think not," Dumbledore replied after some thought. "We should wait, prepare, plan."

The younger man felt immediate anger coursing like lava through his veins, and even his mental capabilities could not fully suppress it. Wait – _**wait**_? _That_ was all the old man had to offer? The Dark Lord, if it was true he was coming back, would not _wait_. They could not afford to do such a thing! He would slaughter their forces – men, women, and children alike! – if they spent their time _planning_. No matter how much they prepared, it would not matter on the battlefield, especially since Snape knew Dumbledore's people would argue against each other to the end. The Potions Master wanted to take preventive measures, strike at their heart while Voldemort and his Death Eaters were unprepared.

But, he did not say anything. The look on Dumbledore's face said such an action would be inadvisable. Snape sneered in the safety of his own mind, at Dumbledore and at his own pathetic weakness. Damn his position! Sometimes, on miserable, drunken nights in his quarters, he wished Dumbledore had not pulled him out of Azkaban after the Dark Lord's fall, that he had not accepted that offer so sugar-coated that it covered the poison within. Wizarding prison, he acknowledged to only himself, would be preferable.

And thus, with a dark bitterness, Snape obeyed his Master.

X

**July 23, 1352**

Ah, Diagon Alley, how wonderful it was.

I was currently walking through the –

_filth, invisible and covering this illusion of a haven, that went by many names, one of which was **ignorance**_

– streets, gazing at –

_my world_

– all the wares on display. It was just before sunset, and there weren't many shoppers out and about now.

_The lurking threats, vampires and ghouls and all those the antithesis of what was considered **good**, crawled out at night, the Boogeyman made real. Human nature dictated that such were avoided. Though, the more dangerous ones hid behind suits of skin, smiling faces luring in the unwary._

I was satisfied with this, preferring to be on my own. After pretending to be interested in a vendor's selection of dried livers, I decided to head back to my room at the Leaky Cauldron. It wasn't that the Alley was boring; no, it was that I had certain _projects_ waiting for me there. Even at the thought of them, I couldn't help the curling of my lips into something secretive that did not bode well for what I was thinking of. There was a small bounce to my step as I ascended the stairs to room number six.

As I opened the –

_way to my **real** self, where I could fulfill my heart's desire_

– door, I was again tempted to practice a new combination Light-Wind Arts spell I had learned from a less-than-legal book on it to keep –

_the wrong sort_

– intruders away. However, with the money I had inherited from James and Lily Potter, my parents, it was unnecessary, as I had given the bar/inn's owner a fair _tip_. If the Dursleys had taught me anything, it was that money takes you far. Of course, they had also taught me that –

_**flesh** is the best delicacy of all_

– it was better living away from them. Thus, I had –

_**skinned** their living bodies, laughing at their screams, and **burned** the rest, concealing my involvement_

– rid myself of them and come to the world of magic.

_Where anything went and there was always a price to be paid._

It was, by far, more free being here, where I could live without much notice with certain precautions.

_And also, the abundance of prey, walking the streets with nary a care. It was easier here, the wizards caught up in their own naïve world and blind to the world's truth. But, that was the joy of it – **showing** them._

I closed the door quickly after myself, not wanting any prying eyes. In my room, the world _transformed_ in my eyes. Multitudes of human skins in varying states lay around, my trophies greeting me like long-lost lovers. In one corner, there was a stack of meat, preserved with a spell and the blood frozen in time to forever be creating a lake underneath it. It smelt of –

_heaven_

– a butcher's backroom, something that was quickly becoming addicting. Blood also decorated the walls, all the life of my ever-rising number of _chosen_. The echoes of their pained noises were the soundtrack to it all, playing over and over again to only my ears. I would miss this when I went back to Hogwarts.

But, perhaps, I could began again over there.

_The beast urged with impatience and visions of the future. It met no resistance._

X

END of Year of the Immortal

**NOTES**:

"legless dragons, evil incarnate sent to poison the maiden": This refers to the Garden of Eden story in Christian mythology. A creature in the Garden of Eden (a perfect place created by God as a sort of try-out) offered the first woman (Eve) a special, knowledge-giving fruit against God's orders. God cursed the creature to forever roam the earth on its belly from then on, implying that it _had_ legs to take away. And what could a snake with legs be? A fucking dragon. (Or a lizard, if you want to be that way.) It descendents would nip at the heels of Eve's descendents, but hers would crush them with said heels. The creature (or snake or whatever) is considered by many to be Satan.

"yajna cyclone": Yajna is a sacrifice ritual (though not with humans) meant to offer stuff to the gods with fire. This is from Hinduism. I didn't really understand what I read about this...

"Minerva": Minerva is a goddess of "poetry, medicine, wisdom, commerce, weaving, crafts, and magic" (so says Wikipedia) in Roman mythology.

"Devourer of Souls": The Devourer of Souls is another name for Ammit. Ammit is the crocodile/hippopotamus/lion creature in Egyptian mythology that ate the souls of the unworthy dead (their souls had been weighed against a feather, of all things). She is not really considered a goddess, but I thought it was fitting. This spell would be considered this world's Cruciatus Curse.

"Vulcan": Vulcan is a god of fire in Roman mythology.

"Olympus": Olympus, as I'm sure you know from Disney, is the home of the gods and goddesses in Greek mythology.

"Neith": Neith is a goddess of war and hunting in Egyptian mythology.

"The God King's fire stolen has been taken to the mortals. The Great Pyre burns those who wield it with unworthy hands. Punishment comes on wings of gold with a beak of unending hunger! Let the flames die in justice's wake!": This spell refers to the story of Prometheus in Greek mythology. Basically, the dude took fire illegally from Zeus (the highest-standing god there is in this mythology) and gave it to the humans. Zeus, being Zeus, found out and got super pissed at Prometheus. He tied the guy to a rock and sent an eagle to eat out his liver everyday (it grew back). Ouch.

**TBL**: Hope you liked it (and read the notes). It's the chapter with the shortest amount of writing/typing time to date! But don't be expecting a repeat... Anyways, if I've got something wrong with the notes, please tell me. I got most of the information from wikipedia (mostly for the quickness, not the correctness), and you all know how _that_ goes.

Next up is going to be an interlude. It'll explain some of the magic system employed here. If any of you have questions that can be answered in the interlude, I will try and make a scene to do so. So, _**please**_, ask me the questions you have about this story so far! I accept anonymous and signed reviews, PMs, emails, you name it – just tell me and I'll try to get to it. This chapter is way long, so I'll let you go with just this.

**The few. The proud. The strong. The reviewers. Be a reviewer today. Help your writer.**

_11/26/2011_

**EDIT (12/8/2011)**: I originally had Athena for the Spirit protecting Hogwarts, but several people pointed out that it doesn't fit. I changed it to Minerva, as suggested by one anonymous reviewer. I'm very thankful to those that did this.


	3. Fragments of Yesterday I

Scourge – Fragments of Yesterday I

**TBL**: I don't feel like saying much here. Although, I should mention the fact that this is coming just about two months after the last update is completely awesome. And unlikely to happen again. Also, please read the **NOTES** section; it'll give you some important info.

Just hold onto your hat as you take the plunge and hope someone can save you.

**Disclaimer**: I, Tainted Blood Lust, do not own neither the Harry Potter series nor Naruto. They belong to their respective owners. I _DO_, however, own this plot (sort of). Please, no stealing.

Also, the definition for 'scourge' is directly from Wikipedia's sister dictionary/thesaurus website. Therefore, it is not mine.

Enjoy.

X

SCOURGE

(_n._) a persistent pest, illness, or source of trouble, cause of suffering to people

X

**August 27, 1351**

A deep frown formed on Ronald Weasley's face as he sat in the kitchen of the Burrow, his ramshackle home. His head was down, looking at the table in front of him yet not wholly _seeing_ it, and long, shaggy red bangs covered his freckled face from the world. In the background, his older brother Percy bragged to their parents about his new prefect position at Hogwarts ("And you know that only two per house are chosen!") and all the other recent achievements. His high, nasally voice annoyed Ron to no end, and it had him grinding his teeth in frustration. Oh how he wished Percy would shut up or that Ron could _make_ him.

Cornflower blue eyes darkened on Ron's face, reflecting a mind filled with vengeful, hateful scenes. His imagination was a wild, wicked thing, not to be stopped easily – not that Ron wanted to. All his life, Ron had been cast aside and pushed down by his family in favor of his older, more successful brothers and the only girl, Ginny. It was a given that the imagined punishments were well earned. Especially that little circle in Hell reserved for Percy.

Ron could heard his brother asking for a new owl, as the family one was _too old __**for a prefect's**__ important duties_. He gave an unseen sneer worthy of any Malfoy at the sheer _arrogance_ of such a request. The Weasley family, as a fact, was dirt poor, and none knew this more than the family themselves. They didn't _need_ another owl if the first one still worked. And yet, their mother, gushing with maternal praise, didn't refuse the ass. Somehow, Ron wasn't all that surprised.

"Thank you, mother," he heard, then the quiet sound of a kiss on the cheek. How disgustingly well he played the part. Their parents, after all these years, still remained ignorant of their sons' true natures, and Ron knew the others intended to keep it that way. Even so, the youngest son knew that if he were to tell his mother the truth, she wouldn't believe him anyway. In his dark mood, Ron acknowledged that they didn't believe much of what he said.

He wished he had some strong alcohol to take a swig of at that moment; it would be appropriate.

Finally, the one-sided conversation with Percy and their parents ended, and Ron let out an inaudible sigh of relief. Another minute more and he would have done something he would most definitely regret later. A bit of the tension drained out of his body, only to reappear when the woman walked into the kitchen.

"Oh, Ron," she sighed in half-exasperation, the pity dripping off those two words. Lately, she had been doing this whenever she saw her youngest son, as she had finally noticed his worsening condition after two years of decline. It was ridiculous, and Ron hated every second of it. The hatred came easy and grew in his heart more with each passing day. If his family understood how he felt and just how far it went, they would most likely throw him out. In the Weasley family, loyalty (no matter how twisted) was valued above all else. And Ron definitely felt not a single iota of loyalty towards his kin. Her son didn't reply to her after she asked about his well-being. A normal, _caring_ mother, Ron felt, would have pursued it, but his merely dismissed him, beginning to bustle around the kitchen in preparation for dinner.

His temporary domain invaded, Ron got up, pushing back his chair noisily, to go head to his room. On his way to the stairs, he had to pass where Percy was lounging on the family's favorite chair, the only cushioned one in the house. He gave his younger sibling an intense, half-lidded gaze as he walked by, something nasty lurking in those chocolate eyes. Ron didn't return it, trying to get past without conflict. It was not meant to be.

"Ronald," Percy called out just as his foot hit the bottom step. Said boy halted, hand tightening to the point of blood loss on the railing. Oh, how he despised how his brother said his name, a formal tone that covered his opinion of Ron as less than dirt. Slowly, he turned to face the older Weasley, and almost involuntarily, his lips slowly parted to reveal teeth in a crocodile's grin. It was a parody of nicety that seemed to take Percy aback a bit. The older Weasley almost said something but stopped himself, mouth open, for some reason. He then, after a moment, decided to just say imperiously, "Get along now."

He continued his journey to his small room and was soon eagle spread over the threadbare sheets, gazing absently at the deteriorating ceiling. As he did this, he was reminded of the promise he had made to himself years ago.

He would rise above his family, above this world. He would show them that Ron Weasley **conquered**. And in this, nothing could stop him.

X

**September 1, 1351**

Hermes Granger sat alone in his own section on the magically-expanded carriage to Hogwarts. It was nothing new to him, being alone that was. In his own home village, he had always been isolated from others. He, of course, wasn't the village idiot, but it was a close call. Even his widowed mother, bitter from Hermes' birth that had been unwanted and from her husband's death, treated him with a cold disdain. It had only worsened when it was revealed Hermes was a wizard, something _unnatural_. While his mother wasn't very religious, the Bible's teachings of Satan and sin loomed ever-present.

As he stared out the window at the passing scenery, his mocha eyes darkened at the thought. The Christian religion was something he was coming to loathe, an opinion the wizards apparently shared. For that, he was grateful; understanding, given for once in his life, would be much welcome.

_His mother watched him with a fire in her eyes, looking at the son that almost completely copied her former husband in his looks. It rivaled the one engulfing the torch in her hand, a not-so-subtle threat._

Hermes shuddered at the memory, hugging his form tightly. His eyes closed of their own violation, the boy not wanting to remember, but the scene played behind his eyelids in vivid detail. He opened them quickly after that and stared ahead with a blank look, not quite anchored in reality. In his thoughts, he questioned why, why this all had to happen to _him_. His very existence was a curse, he knew deep in the darkest recesses of his mind. Over the years, he had become bitter, uncovering this revelation one night at the tender age of six.

_The crowd grew at a rapid pace, too fast for comfort. The ones closest to him cried out, **Stone him! Stone him! **The chant rose to a crescendo, catching like a plague among the masses. Stones – thrown for wizardry. But they did not yet know the truth, and how right they were all along. **Stone him! Stone him!**_

Sometimes, Hermes contemplated taking his own life in moments of heightened misery. He shook his head, trying to dismiss the thought. It was wrong to think such things. Hell or something very much like it, for that was where he was sure to go, wouldn't be a pretty place. He would take the lesser evil, no matter how hard it seemed. Besides, he somehow sensed, knew with all his being, that he was destined for a greater purpose, something _more_. With that in mind, he managed to survive each day. Reminding himself of this, he forced himself into a better mood. It worked to an extent, and the day suddenly seemed a bit brighter. It was not to last.

At that moment, the door was forcibly slammed open, three older students coming in with arrogance and surety in their every move. By the crimson robes and lion badges, it became apparent to him that they were Gryffindors. A small grimace crossed Hermes' face at the notion. He had not heard good things about the fiery house. They were, according to gossip, a rash bunch, quick to jump to conclusions and lacking half a brain. Definitely not a group he would belong to – or even wanted to.

As they swaggered further into Hermes' current domain, the three, all girls, finally noticed the first year.

"Eh, look!" one, a brunette that could easily be seen as pack leader, crowed, blue eyes lighting up in a bully's delight. The others, both with hair a dirty gold color and green-blue eyes, let out overly-loud chuckles, the sounds as similar as the twins. Their leader continued, "It's a little firsty, all alone!"

A grin, a nasty thing that spoke of a mild sadism, spread across her lips. The twins held an alike expression. She spoke again, "What's your name, firsty?"

In all three of them there seemed to be some sudden anticipation, as if the question were vitally important, would determine his future. It all set Hermes on edge, suspicion ripe in his mind. Nevertheless, seeing no way out, he answered, "Hermes Granger."

The brunette burst out into loud, obnoxious laughter, and the twins giggled. And Hermes' fate had been decided.

"A mudblood, a mudblood!" she shouted, and right away, he could tell it wasn't a favorable term.

_**Stone him! Stone him!**_

He stiffened, both at the remembrance and their words. The trio could see his visible tension and became excited at the prospect.

"Know what that means, do you?" one of the twins taunted. No, Hermes didn't know what 'mudblood' meant, but he didn't let it show. Ignorance was a weakness that these types exploited with ease.

He lifted his head, as if proud of being a supposed mudblood, but didn't say anything. Their grins soon turned into sneers, the three offended by this.

"You should be bowing to your superiors, mudblood," the lead Gryffindor said, sneer only widening. "You're good for nothing else."

_**You're good for** _nothing_, **worthless!** his mother screamed at his face. They were in the middle of a street, yet she still yelled. To make an example, perhaps. A little girl, no more than seven, stopped to stare at the scene, eyes wide and curious. The girl's mother realized this after a minute and turned back to grab the child, eyes averting from the yelling woman._

_**Come now**, she said to the girl, pulling on her arm urgently, **we have to go.**_

_**But, Mommy!** the child protested, tugging the opposite way. **Why is that lady yelling?**_

_**There's nothing there, Catherine.**_

Hermes stood up, brown eyes hard and filled with a hidden rage. Though shorter, he stared the three down, a thousand times taller in spirit. The twins, sensing a drastic, _dangerous_ change, backed down a bit, sneers turning to frowns. The last seemed not to have noticed, intelligence obviously lacking. She opened her mouth to say something, but he cut her off.

"**Don't**," he commanded in a warning tone. Hermes then turned to his things and grabbed them with stiff, wooden movements. Silently, he glared at the three, eyes promising a vicious revenge. He walked out after that, slamming the carriage door behind him. To the Gryffindors, it held the feeling of a final bell tolling, something ominous that did not bode well for them.

X

Hermes, after searching through the carriages, eventually came upon one that seemed empty. However, as he walked in further, he found that there was a single boy there. He appeared to be asleep, but his head suddenly snapped up to gaze at Hermes through a veil of pitch black hair. Those eyes were a piercing, almost unnatural green, and he felt something primal within that gaze. The boy under scrutiny quickly looked away. He sensed that this black-haired boy was deadly in some way, but he was not repelled. In fact, it was quite the opposite. Hermes felt compelled to be by his side until the end of time. And he just _knew_ the boy was going to be something great, it being an instinctive conclusion.

Trying not to give any of this away, he said to the other male, "Hello, may I sit here?"

That eerie gaze lingered a moment more, intense and judging. Then finally, Hermes could no longer feel it on him. He looked to the boy and saw him staring out the window by his side. A green orb gave him a side glance before his head nodded slowly. Hermes, almost timidly, made his way over and sat across from the other. He put his stuff down and turned to the boy with curiosity.

"Hermes Granger," he introduced. He didn't hold out a hand, guessing the boy wouldn't shake it anyway. There was a long moment of silence.

Then, "Harry Potter."

X

**September 3, 1351**

It was again the first day of classes, and as the students filed into the classroom, Minerva McGonagall watched, hidden by a spell. She did this every year, for it helped to gauge this year's newcomers. That and it allowed her to make a grand entrance, subduing most of them in the process. As the Fire Arts professor, her opening to the class would, of course, be based in her specialty. Each year, she tried to do something different, if only to amuse herself.

It was really too bad the Slytherin first years wouldn't be in this class. But alas, the Slytherin house was Water-based, the opposite of Fire, and thus they were unable to preform the Fire Arts. Minerva always loved to show up Trelawny, the Water Arts professor, head of Slytherin, and her rival. Everything was always a competition between the two.

As the last stranglers went in, the door, charmed to do so, closed behind them automatically. The professor dropped her spell, becoming visible once more. Then, she started the spell that would herald her coming.

"The hawk, the vessel of the mighty Sun God, comes on lighted wings. As the great fire in the sky rises in the east, you are awakened. Your slumber during the darkness has been _cast aside_! Glide _forth_ as the messenger to these lowly mortals. Harm not the innocents and let them _see_ your magnificently shining form!"

With that, she dropped some hawk flight feathers on the ground before her. It helped to lessen the drain of a spell such as that. Even without directly invoking the god's name, it was a bit of a tiring spell. Unfortunately, it was a five-lined spell, and those with five or six lines usually took more effort than those with seven, the most magical number there was. Besides, they had another effect: helping to control what was to come. After all, she couldn't be harming students!

The feathers, upon hitting the ground, immediately lit up in flames, sparked by no human. The flames rapidly consumed them, and as the last of the feathers was eaten up, the form of a fiery hawk came into existence. It started out tiny but soon grew to the size of Minerva. Its wingspan was narrow and long, a deep red with wisps of sunny yellow at the ends. It let out a screech, not a physical sound but one that echoed in her mind as the caster of the spell. Its wings flapped once then twice, even though it was already airborne. It then flew towards the door to the classroom and passed through without trouble, leaving a few scorch marks to the door that already had quite a few.

Minerva could hear the gasps (and the few frightened screams) of her students from within and was pleased. With a display like that – she really had outdone herself this year! – she was sure the vast majority of them would be inclined to respect her, and thus behave better. It was a lesson she had learned from being a Slytherin's rival for so long: it's easier to go through life with more power. All the top Ministry of Magic officials were powerful in their own rights or had some sort of unique, useful talent. (For example, there was her good friend in the Auror Department, essentially the law enforcers of the magical world, that had a gift with plantlife. Being in the field regularly, he made use of it by binding foes with trees or turning ordinary grass into deadly spikes. And he was by no means a low-ranking employee.) She herself could have gotten into such a position but had declined the opportunity in favor of doing what she loved best: teaching.

Shaking herself of her thoughts, Minerva focused again on the situation. She strode over to the door and slammed it open, the wooden construct banging loudly against the stone wall. The students startled and quickly turned in their seats to look at the disruption. As she observed them, she noticed that only two did not have this reaction. One was a bushy brown-haired boy she couldn't recall the name of who merely tensed and shifted a bit, while the other was a shaggy black-haired boy she recognized as Harry Potter who was calm and remained seated forward. She was somewhat surprised, as there had not been a student this unresponsive in quite some time, much less two of them.

While observing, she had never stopped moving swiftly to the front of the classroom, not as intimidating as the Potions professor, Severus Snape, but intimidating nevertheless. When she reached the front, she swiftly turned on her heel to give them all a sharp look. Most cowered, but Potter returned it boldly. She made a mental note to watch that one.

"I," she began, "am your professor for Fire Arts class."

She lifted a hand and said, "Minor element of the Spirits, show your fiery form."

A sphere of fire formed above her hand, glowing mildly and pulsing between gold and a burnt orange. The children were awed, and even the notable boy leaned toward her slightly with a strange glint in his eyes. She was suddenly reminded of a young Tom Riddle in the Wind Arts class he shared with Minerva at the time, all in an interest that was later revealed to be less than moral. As he had transformed into the infamous Voldemort during their Hogwarts years, a metamorphosis hidden until it was too late, that same interest and thirst for knowledge remained the whole time. Terribly disturbed, she pushed away the thought forcefully, not wanting to relive it.

"You may call me Professor McGonagall," she said to them, thoughts not showing in any way and only because of her years of experience. "Anything else will not be acceptable and will result in punishment."

None of them paled at the mention of punishment, as they would later on in their schooling. Punishment in Hogwarts meant the Cruciatus Curse, a newly-created torture spell that taught students well in the lessons of respect and discipline. It was a purely Dark Arts spell and thus a little frowned upon in certain circles, but for the most part, was a good motivator for many a thing and useful enough to be legal.

"As you may have noticed, there are no Slytherins in this class. For those of you wondering about this, it is because the Water Arts are the polar opposite of the Fire Arts. People with an elemental specialization in Water are completely unable to preform Fire spells, and thus it is useless to teach them any. The other elements are Earth, Wind, Dark, and Light. Earth and Wind, Dark and Light are also opposites. However, no one can have an elemental affinity for Dark or Light. Despite this, Light and Dark are considered to be the most essential elements for their ability to change the four other elements' spells into something otherwise unattainable.

"The Fire-Dark combination spells produce the Hellfire Arts and the Fire-Light combination ones produce the Cleansing Arts. The Hellfire Arts, appropriately named, is a form of fire that takes on a more powerful guise. However, it is often uncontrollable and sometimes, in spells of a higher caliber, has some sentience. The Cleansing Arts are a branch that is used in a variety of ways. Such include several healing rituals and purification. Or cleaning, if you so wish.

"The other combinations for the Fire Arts are Fire-Earth, which makes the Lava Arts, and Fire-Wind, which is the Lightning Arts. Both of them are usually easier to cast than the Hellfire and Cleansing Arts. We will discuss all these combinations in later classes, and they are electives choices in your third year and after, Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws included.

"Of course, all this will be taught in more detail in Professor Binns' Basics of Magic class."

She paused, concentrating on the students' reactions intently and gathering information expertly on just who was a muggleborn and who was not. It was odd that Potter acted like a muggleborn, even if subtly with an outward mask of the purebloods' manner she often saw in the wizarding elite. Though he had been left with muggle relatives, something she had protested but eventually accepted grudgingly after Dumbledore's insistence, she had expected Petunia Dursley, being the sister of Potter's mother, to at least explain _some_ of the magical world. It was as worrying as it was strange. Minerva made a mental note to check out the situation.

She continued, getting right into the lesson, "Now, the first Spirit, the general term for a god or goddess, we will study will be a low-ranking god. For those unaware of this, there are ranks for Spirits based on their power and the amount of abilities they have or can give. The ranks go from low to ultimate with medium and high between them. There are more levels between these four, such as medium-high and high-medium (which differ, though slightly). They are also organized into categories by what elemental they have control over. Each lives in one of seven different Realms outside of this one, the Earthly Realm, like the Inferno Realm, where Fire-based Spirits reside. But, that is not for this class.

"This first Spirit you will learn about is..."

Minerva started the first lesson of the year as she always did, the lecture just the same as the ones she did five, ten, more years ago. Though, instead of eying the whole class, her gaze kept straying to Potter and, to a lesser extent, the boy next to him.

Visions of Riddle haunted her from the corners of her mind, relentless and suddenly very similar to the present.

X

**October 31, 1351**

Ron was in the back of the library, hunched over a book on the Wind Arts, a subject he struggled in. He was only half concentrated on it, mind still going over thoughts of his family. His siblings were all Gryffindors and, being Slytherin, they had shunned him. It was an almost immediate reaction, seemingly instinctual, that hatred between Gryffindor and Slytherin. But, contrary to the beliefs of everyone around him, Ron knew it was a deeper matter than that. Pure and simple, it was them showing their true, darker nature. Their Gryffindor fellows more than allowed this, encouraging it with jeers and, with some, their silent by-standing.

One of the worst parts, though not totally unexpected, was the non-involvement of the Slytherins. Being from a well-known muggle-loving family that had been sorted into Gryffindor for generations, there was much prejudice from his own house. They had their own way of jeering, though. They often gave him cold shoulders, never helping in any situation. He had no doubt that they would not lift a finger even if he were on the floor dying.

Also, Ron could hear their cruel whispers behind his back and the sudden silence when he got too close. He often had visions of walking up to a whispering group of those bastards and confronting them. But, he knew, it would be useless. Slytherin retribution, he learned early on, was worse than the blunt, public Gryffindor style. It was a subtle thing with more far-reaching consequences, life-ruining if given the chance. Thus, he preferred not to provoke the sleeping viper.

He often hid like this these days, avoiding trouble, even though his mind demanded he take action. He placated it with thoughts of 'later' and 'their time will come,' but it still was not enough. One of these days he would snap, and that was a fact he felt deep in his soul.

Ron looked up from his book when he heard a noise, something unusual for being this far into the depths of the library. His expression darkened like storm clouds on the distant horizon at what he saw. Percy, the worst of his brothers, was coming around the corner, peering this way and that at all the books. The younger boy wished to remain unseen, but alas, it was not meant to be. Percy caught sight of familiar red hair out of the corner of his eye and immediately turned to learn his suspicions were correct. A slow, predatory grin spread across his lips, and he closed in on Ron like a shark scenting blood.

"Why, hello, Ronald," he greeted, anticipation underlining his tone. The younger sibling decided to ignore him, hoping Percy would leave him alone after he received no reaction. Apparently, though, the older brother was in a mood to doggedly pursue the torment of his sibling. "Have we been hiding, traitor?"

Ron grit his teeth, the sound loud in the otherwise silent library section. Ever since his sorting into Slytherin, the other Weasley brothers had taken to calling him traitor and other such names, convinced that he had betrayed their family with a decision that the _sorting hat_ had made. He calmly closed his book, knowing he would not get a chance to read it now that Percy had come over. He maintained a cool facade, unintentionally acting like the Slytherin he loathed to be. Percy, the second most vigilant of the Weasley clan (after Ron), noticed this, and it just further cemented his ideas of Ron.

"I have no need to talk to you, brother," Ron announced, with a bit of a haughty attitude, something he had been slowly picking up from his housemates. After all, in the house of snake, one did well to blend in. The added 'brother' was a habitual thing, one he had not completely taken out of his vocabulary yet.

At this, Percy's anger, a typical Gryffindor inferno that grew rapidly, began to take over at this simple slip. He whispered harshly, as if there were people listening in, "_Brother_?"

He glared at Ron, his emotions clear as day, and then snorted. "You're just a Slytherin, a stain that could not even be considered a Weasley. You are no brother of mine!"

Though he had been expecting this, Ron was still, deep down, hurt at these words. It felt like Percy had stabbed him in the back and had left him to slowly bleed out. Even if he had saw this coming, even before his sorting, the younger Weasley felt like crying. Did familial bonds, the blood connecting them, mean _nothing_? Even after all these years, apparently it didn't matter. And for that, Ron would never forgive them.

Ron just barely managed to show nothing of his hurt, but his own rage still rose in response. It was a glacier, slow to gain momentum but all-encompassing in its destruction that lasted far longer than any fire. For now, it was still building, but when fully formed, it would wreak havoc upon its targets.

He stared at Percy for the longest moment, and it unnerved the older Weasley in its intensity and hidden promises.

"If I am no brother of yours," Ron stated, and it was a matter-of-fact thing, undeniably true and without doubt, "then nothing shall save you. When your time comes, there will be no obligations holding me back, and I will laugh. I will laugh in your face at your pain."

His own grin, far more malicious and vile, took a hold of his face, matching the expression in his eyes.

"Death will come for you," he continued, "and it will not be swift."

With that, Ron swiftly brushed by Percy, and the older male shivered, feeling as if Death itself had brushed its cold, cold hands against him, not yet able to take his soul but reminding him of his mortality all the same.

X

Ron, after wandering around for a bit after his encounter with Percy, decided to head toward the Great Hall when his stomach admonished him for neglecting it. He walked in quietly, moving the humongous door minimally in an attempt to not be noticed. It worked to an extent, as only a few heads turned in curiosity from seats nearest the entrance. However, all his work was undone the moment he sat at the Slytherin table.

It was crowded at this time, so Ron had no choice but to place himself near his yearmates. An unknown boy, perhaps a third year by the looks of him, leaned over to sneer at the Weasley as the younger male piled food unto his plate and tried to ignore the others.

"Back again, Weasley?" he asked with a mouthful of food, and it seemed a particularly obvious question to Ron. He didn't answer, preferring the idiot to realize the stupidity of his own question.

Draco Malfoy, three people down to Ron's left, perked up a bit at this. Malfoys had always had a feud with the Weasleys as long as anyone could remember, one that went far beyond conflicting elements and personalities (though that was part of it). Him, being a subscriber to this hatred, did what any Malfoy would have done: join in.

"Yes," he drawled in that obnoxious, pompous way of his, "what _are_ you doing here? You should be over _there_."

He casually made a vague gesture toward the Gryffindor table, two tables in front of Malfoy. Percy, somehow sensing it or perhaps by poor fate, looked over with hawk eyes at that exact moment. The older boy sneered, hateful eyes locking with Ron's, then turned to his side to start a conversation with a fellow Gryffindor. The message was clear.

_Have fun with **them**, because you're not **worth** my time._

The bitterness, already stewing within him, only grew at this. It showed in his voice as he told Malfoy, "You will get what's coming to you."

The white haired boy flushed in anger, something he was sure to catch hell for later from the older Slytherins, who did not recommend public displays of emotion. "My father will hear of this!"

While not an idle threat, it was said in such a whine and highly overused, thus losing its potency. Ron's own threat was hollow at the moment, having no money or much power to back it up.

The Slytherins in that area were muttering to each other in the meanwhile. One, the older Greengrass sister, Ron thought, spat from down the table, "_Traitor_."

All at once, the confrontation with Percy came back to him, all the rage and bone-deep hatred and, most of all, his inability to do anything about it. Suddenly not hungry anymore, he roughly pushed back his chair and stood up, a combined look of absolute loathing and sadness flashing briefly across his face. The Weasley knew he couldn't do this, show his weakness to these predators, but he _needed_ to get away – from the Slytherins, from his family, from _reality_. It was all becoming too much too quickly, and he felt constricted, a tight pressure against his heart _squeezing_ with all its might. Not daring to look at anyone, he swiftly left the Great Hall, eyes burning viciously with restrained tears the whole way.

X

After leaving, Ron had begun to wander around the castle, seeking and seeing nothing. His eyes were a bit glazed, immaterial visions dancing before him and taunting with nasty voices.

_Poor, poor, little Ron. He can't do anything, can he?_

_Running away like a dog with its tail between its legs – such a coward._

_**Useless!**_

He started to mumble under his breath, talking back uselessly to them, mostly pleas for blessed silence. The sting of tears being held back began to get to him, and he, after realizing where he actually was, headed in the direction of the nearest bathroom. Luckily, it was one hardly ever used and would provide the perfect place to shame himself in private.

It was the only place he could go, even if the mere thought of it bothered him. It was a room with several stalls separated by walls with the only entrance to one as a lockable door. Inside each was a large, stone bowl, big enough to sit on, so that had runes carved all over it. It was designed to magically send off droppings to... wherever it was they went. They were appropriately named 'waste pots' and a new invention, only having been on the market since a few years ago.

They were expensive items, and the whole of the Weasley fortune could not buy even one. Hogwarts, as a whole, often reminded him of how pathetic his situation was. As it was, Ron and his family only went to the wizarding school because it was free to all magicals. Magic was a precious gift, after all, and with so few magicals, even including the muggleborns, many felt that as many of them as possible should be trained. This sort of thinking only made Ron feel worse at times.

The Weasley, upon arriving, immediately went to the stall furthest from the room's entrance. He sat down heavily on a waste pot, and the tears began to flow swiftly. He choked a sob down as, all at once, the images and thoughts of his inadequacy bombarded him again. He mumbled under his breath incoherent and broken phrases.

He continued for what seemed like hours, fading in and out of reality. Then suddenly, something disturbed him. It was the sound of heavy footsteps, too loud to possibly be human, and it left Ron highly confused. It was a welcome distraction, and knowing it wouldn't work if he stayed here, he got up, rubbing his face thoroughly to rid of the tears.

He opened the door, feeling as if it were necessary to do this quietly. He, as stealthily as he could, made his way to the room's entrance. He peered out cautiously, looking left first. It was when he looked right that he found the source of the disturbance – a troll. It was as alien an encounter as it was unexpected. He closed his eyes tightly then opened them, half expecting to find out it was an illusion cooked up by his exhausted brain. When the troll was still there, Ron paled drastically. Merlin, was this a disaster. Ron knew if he went head to head with a _troll_ – in Hogwarts! – he most definitely wouldn't survive.

Then, Harry Potter arrived.

It was as if the boy had appeared out of thin air, so sudden as it was. He stood in front of the monster, staring it down with blazing eyes. Despite the odds being against Potter, in that moment, Ron fully believed the other male could do it. Proving this, Potter pulled out his wand, pointed it at the troll, and _conquered_. The fiery lance that appeared above black hair was utterly awe-inspiring. It was poetry in motion, that spell, as it shot toward the troll and even as the troll was destroyed messily. Ron's jaw dropped involuntarily at the display of magic far beyond what Potter should know.

His moment of stupor was interrupted as Potter spotted him, a stormy and foreboding expression taking a hold of his face. It terrified Ron like nothing had before. Potter opened his mouth to say something but was stopped when they both heard the sound of people approaching, not yet in sight but soon to be so. Before he knew what was happening, the other boy had grabbed Ron and dragged him to a shadowy corner of the bathroom.

The conversation over the troll between the people they hid from that followed was lost to Ron, who remained a bit comatose. He _did_, however, notice when Potter moved, and reality reasserted itself all at once as he felt the wand pushing harshly over his heart. He looked down to see its red glow and knew that with one wrong move, death would be close at hand. Potter leaned in and whispered into Ron's ear a command, the threat in it very obvious. In response, he nodded his assent frantically.

And even as he next ran away from that monstrous face, a strange feeling mixed with Ron's terror. It was a contradicting feeling of connection with Potter. In a way, that scared him more than the boy himself.

X

**November 3, 1351**

Lately, Hermes had been noticing Harry Potter more and more. It was a gradual thing, below his notice until recently. It was more than just a calculating notice, emotions beginning to tie themselves in. He didn't want to but could nevertheless feel an intense longing, a craving to be noticed by Harry in return.

Having had no friends or anything of the sort growing up, Hermes had hoped that Hogwarts would be better, a place where he could flourish. He was heavily disappointed when the truth of the situation came out. It jaded him just that little bit more every time a passing student, random yet judging, called him a mudblood or something similar.

Despite all the _wrongness_ in Harry's presence, that indescribable niggling in the back of the mind that warned of the impending danger, Hermes somehow felt he was the light at the end of a seemingly never-ending tunnel. It was a soul-deep kinship that he felt with Harry, confusing yet welcome all the same. He didn't know _why_ exactly this was, as they seemed so different. Yet, the dark poison inside of Hermes, born of all that had happened to him – _**Stone him! Stone him!**_ his mind screamed – and what was still going on, whispered that _yes_, they had something in common. They both held that same rage, that nasty and vile thing that urged with a wicked smile. For the most part, he ignored it, terrified of that uncontrollable monster and its sheer potential, and only when in his dormitory late at night, nursing mental wounds, did he pay any attention to it. Here in this hidden world, separate yet just the same as its non-magical counterpart, it _thrived_.

Harry was a Siren's call to Hermes, and thus he could not resist making his move at long last. He was currently searching the library, and trying to avoid other students, for Harry. It took a while, as the library was huge and Harry had chosen to sit in a shadowy section hidden deep in the back. Hermes saw that he was intently studying some book and was suddenly hesitant to approach, contemplating turning around to head back to solitude and loneliness. He shuffled around a bit, doubts and brief bravery warring with each other.

Then, Harry looked up with glowing eyes the color of the infamous Killing Curse, the darkness making them seem all the brighter while concealing the rest of the boy in an eerie manner. Hermes' prepared speech, a grand proposition for friendship (or, at the very least, a passing alliance), faded from memory the second their eyes met, leaving him silent and shy. Their gazes connected for several long minutes, the Granger unable to tear away. After forever, Harry blinked, and the other boy was able to glance to the side.

"Yes?" Harry asked in that rough tone that Hermes was jealous of, the one that made every word sound like a growl, surprising for an eleven year old yet wholly fitting.

"I, uh, I..." Hermes said then stuttered a bit more before stopping himself. He took a deep breath, gathering the last shreds of his courage together.

"I need some help with the Fire Arts," he said slowly, as to not mess up again. There was a moment of silence before Hermes dared to gaze at Harry another time, and the look in his eyes for that brief second left Hermes shaken. It was a wild, beastly gleam, full of that beast so close to the surface in the boy in some remembered moment, and it made Harry seem like a demon in human skin. Hermes had once heard that eyes were the windows to the soul, and now he saw the truth in this. His form shuddered lightly as his eyes darted away swiftly.

"Sit down then," Harry said, voice just a tad more rough than usual. When he spoke again, it was back to normal, "What sort of help?"

Hermes timidly sat down as requested, half in amazement that this was actually working out. He opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out. He tried a few more times, Harry patiently waiting in an uncharacteristic move, before he could finally get out, "I have some questions about the spell McGonagall showed us yesterday."

After that, the two stayed in the library until closing time, as it was a day off from classes. They discussed all of Hermes' questions. All the while, Harry didn't change from his normal, distant behavior, but the other boy felt that something was changing between them. Later, when lying in his bed, a smile, small and genuine, formed on his lips, reluctant to leave. Things were finally starting to look up.

X

**December 2, 1351**

Ron was making his way toward the library. He was searching for Potter and had heard through gossip that the boy was usually spotted there. The Weasley, after many weeks of debating with himself, had come to the conclusion that he needed to say something to Potter about that October's run-in with the troll. The threat still lingered in the back of his mind, forever reminding him of the potential in Potter for violence that simmered just below the surface. Ron tried to ignore his instinctive fear, his pride demanding nothing less. The lessons his mother taught him also demanded something: giving his thanks to Potter. He wished she hadn't, for he didn't want to, in his conscious mind, to face Potter again.

As he opened the doors to the library, Ron told himself it was necessary. He ignored the small part of him that whispered of the strange connection he felt with the boy. He didn't need to rely on anyone.

It took a while to find Potter, and Ron finally found him in the History section (a place few ever went). He sat with that Hermes Granger boy from Ravenclaw. It was an odd scene to the Weasley's eyes. Potter _never_ associated with anyone, as far as Ron knew. He stood there awkwardly for a bit, half hoping the other two wouldn't notice him. Potter, apparently the more observant of the two, looked up from his books and parchment to the third male. He stared at Ron with that gaze he always had, the one that darkly told of horrifying deeds committed and enjoyment in having done so, the one that chilled to the bone anyone comprehending of it, and tilted his head, rather like a wolf surveying a rabbit with its legs broken. This didn't make it any easier for Ron, but he felt paralyzed in the barbed grasp of that stare.

The moment was soon broken as Potter looked away, as if dismissive of his presence. Ron remained tense in the aftermath, still quite aware that a predator was in his midst. Before he could do anything, escape or otherwise, Potter, without once glancing up again, asked, "Yes?"

"I..." the Weasley started then licked his lips in an unintended, nervous gesture. His eyes darted from his feet to Granger before swiftly returning. He wished Potter was alone, as he was sure the boy would not want a witness to this conversation. However, he had enough sense not to mention anything about the Ravenclaw and could only hope this wouldn't go horribly wrong. His long-standing promise to himself, a vow he would never forget, popped into his thoughts just then, and it gave him the drive to continue. "I wanted to..."

Here he struggled with himself, an internal battle he attempted not to show and only partially succeeding.

_He would rise above his family, above this world. He would show them that Ron Weasley **conquered**._

"...to thank you," he finally finished. There was a moment of strained, strangling silence then he elaborated slowly, "For... October."

As soon as he had said that, Potter looked over sharply, narrowed green eyes on Ron's face and immediately pulling out his soul through his eyes. It was an invasive, foreign thing, and the Weasley jerked back in an involuntary, aborted motion. Granger did not once look up or otherwise interact, but Ron could see the slight smirk curling his lips.

"Mentioning that," Potter spoke in a whisper filled with a warning to be heeded with care, having finished ripping out Ron's soul and digesting it much like a fairytale creature painted in the vile shades of evil, "would be... _inadvisable_."

_**You saw** _nothing_, Potter whispered into Ron's ear like a lover, one that was a demon donning stolen human skin. It was a cunning imitation of normality and sanity, but one with rips and tears revealing the true nature of of something damned by Nature herself._

The vision of Potter wavered in front of the Weasley for a split second, flickering between reality and pure insanity cloaked expertly. The images abruptly overlapped and melded, leaving Ron with bile rising up his throat and a creeping panic stalking in the shadows of his mind.

"I didn't tell anyone," he got out quickly, not knowing how he did so but grateful nevertheless. "I won't, I swear."

Potter sought out the validity of his words, once again through Ron's eyes, and seemed to find something satisfactory there.

"Good," was all the boy said, everything he needed to convey in that one word. Ron recognized it for what it was, and though he couldn't relax – and felt he could never do so before this demon so above the Earthly Realm – now, the bile and panic receded. Potter focused again on the book on the table, this time the dismissal meant. Ron did not read further into it, taking the opportunity to collect the shattered pieces of himself. He left as fast as he could.

X

**May 30, 1352**

"Yes, yes, Master shall get what He desires. Yes, very soon indeed. All there is left to do is..." A short silence and an unhinged grin. "I shall get it for Him, and He shall be very pleased... Rewards – yes, yes, yes! – rewards for His loyal servant."

A deep frown in another moment of silence. "But, the obstacles! How to rid myself of them... How, how, how!"

A howl of rage, that of a mindless animal discovering its prey to be gone. "A plan! I need a plan! What about... No, no, no, that won't do at all."

Bony hands tangling in short brown hair, likely an unconscious gesture. "Maybe that... No, not that. Maybe I could, maybe..."

More growls of frustration. "Master, what am I to _do_?"

Quirrell, the current Light Arts professor at Hogwarts, was pacing in his office, the time long past sunset and his last class of the day. Abruptly, he stopped and turned sharply to stride toward his desk. He, with a certain desperation and shaking hands, reached out to try to open one of its drawers. He failed at first, hands getting in the way of it, as unstable as they were. He then forced himself to not exactly calm himself, but nevertheless stand still with hands that steadily stopped shaking. He impatiently tried to open the drawer again after their trembling fell to an acceptable level.

He pulled it open with a force that almost ripped the drawer from its place, reaching inside to grasp a well-worn piece of parchment. Quirrell almost tore it with his hastiness but managed not to out of reverence for what it was – a letter from his Master. Well, not _exactly_ his Master, the letter having been written and sent by another of His servants on His pre-defeat orders. His Master was a very intelligent man, Quirrell knew for sure, to be able to make such plans for all possible outcomes in the future. It was but one of many reasons he adored Him so and would follow his Master to the ends of the earth.

Quirrell smoothed out the letter and read its message, despite having memorized the words a long time ago. He mouthed them silently as he read them again.

_Q,_

_The King is to arrive soon. Your help is needed to gather the food necessary for the feast. It is located in the Storage Room for now. I suspect the Rebel will move it in spite to prevent the King's coming. The Rebel is a cunning one indeed._

_If it is moved, the food will be with the Rebel, for he keeps his possessions close. I need you to talk to the Rebel. I am sure he will see reason once the situation is explained. He needs a new sword, as we all know, since the last one was broken in that last battle. If you take a new one to him, perhaps he will be more willing to give up the food. We can only hope for the best._

_P_

It was, of course, all in code, only His servants being able to read it – what a nifty spell! – and even if they managed to break the spell, the words would only confuse them. Quirrell once again marveled at his Master's brilliance. However, he was interrupted when there came a knock at the door. He looked up sharply to it with a cunning gaze. He put away the letter slowly and muttered a spell to lock the drawer away from prying eyes. He paused for a brief second, visibly putting away his madness, tucking it away on a shelf for later retrieval. He was not so far gone that he would not recognize that this was the right time to do so.

He straightened as the knock sounded again and once more put on the mask he needed, becoming Poor, Foolish, Stuttering Quirrell to all the world. Though it was _such_ a shame he couldn't reveal his true personality, he delighted in fooling them all, the sense of accomplishment making him feel every bit of his superiority. A grin of crazed joy wanted to make itself known as he turned the knob to face the intruder, but he smothered it like a determined murderer in the night.

Quirrell finally opened the door after a third knock to reveal Dumbledore standing behind it with a happy little smile and his blue eyes sparkling.

"Why, hello, my dear boy!" Dumbledore immediately started off with in his usual cheerful way. Quirrell greeted the old wizard and asked what he needed of the professor in his quiet stutter.

"I just wanted to request something of you, a simple task really," the headmaster responded. He then asked the other man if he could take over the Water Arts classes for a day, as Trelawny was apparently a bit under the weather. Quirrell agreed to take on the task, as he had only one class that day that didn't conflict any Water Arts ones. It was what any good professor would do, and _of course_ he didn't mind. After this, Dumbledore left, exiting with an expression of gratitude. Quirrell's smile fell the very instant the door closed, as did his mask. He unshelved that part of him almost full to the brim with insanity, the ever loyal and fanatic servant taking over.

The man was tempted to get out the letter again but restrained himself, knowing he had other things to do. Like planning on how to get the item required for his Master's return.

Quirrell would get the Philosopher's Stone, even if it cost him his life.

X

END of Fragments of Yesterday I

**NOTES**:

The different Arts: Magical spells are divided into six elements: Fire, Water, Earth, Wind, Dark, and Light. Fire and Water, Earth and Wind, Dark and Light are polar opposites and cannot be paired together. Elements can be separate or can be combined for different, often more powerful effects. Th combinations are: Fire and Wind, Lightning; Fire and Earth, Lava; Fire and Dark, Hellfire; Fire and Light, Cleansing; Wind and Water, Ice/Snow; Wind and Dark, Illusions/Object Curses; Wind and Light, Wards; Water and Dark, Binding; Water and Light, Sight (telling the future, past, and/or present); Water and Earth, Plant; Earth and Dark, Soul/Death; Earth and Light, Healing. The reason for changing the magic system to this, and as to why they use Spirits for casting, will become more apparent later on (most likely in the Narutoverse part). That and I like it better.

The different Realms: There are seven Realms that make up the world in this story. Spirits reside in the other Realms besides the Earthly Realm, where most non-Spirits reside. Each Spirit has an element and has to live in that corresponding Realm. They are as follows: Earth, Death Realm; Wind, Tempest Realm; Water, Depth Realm; Fire, Inferno Realm; Dark, Abyss Realm; Light, Shining Realm. They all vary in the level of danger as well as the few non-Spirit creatures living in each one. Each Realm has an Old One, an ancient entity from the beginning of time, assigned to it. The Earthly Realm is considered neutral grounds, and thus Spirits cannot reside there, only lend their powers through the barriers separating the Realms. More will be explained about this (especially the Old Ones) in great detail in later chapters. The Realms themselves do not play much of a role, but the Old Ones do.

Snape not being the head of Slytherin: Snape, if he was to be the head of Slytherin, would have to be the Water Arts professor. He, in canon, is, to anyone not blind, deaf, and mute, the Potions professor. I knew I needed him as the Potions professor for one of the scenes in this chapter. Besides that, potions are his passion as much as the Dark Arts. However, if he were in the Dark Arts position, more suspicion would be upon him – not something he needs (being a spy and all). I added Trelawny as the head of Slytherin (yes, I know, very unfitting) because I needed a Water Arts professor and she _is_ a Seer (and thus her element is Water, Sight being a Water-Light combination). Trelawny, though you'll see little of her, will be OOC because of this. Plus, I wanted a canon character to be in that position.

Quirrell being the Light Arts professor: If I have the magic system set up the way I do, Voldemort would be against Light Arts while favoring Dark Arts. It makes more sense for the cursed teacher position (which will not be changed from canon) to be the Light Arts one since he doesn't want the future generations to learn about the element he loathes so. This way, they get more exposure to Dark than Light, as the teaching is scattered, and he can convince more to join his side. Also, Quirrell would be less scrutinized in this position.

Professor Binns' Basics of Magic class: _Basics_ of Magic is much better than just _History_ of Magic. It never made sense to me why there was a class on history but never any on subjects like English and general, everyday magic things like culture. Basics of Magic covers all those and more, wrapping up what could have been several classes into one.

"Minor element of the Spirits, show your fiery form.": This is just a simple spell to conjure a bit of the element asked for. Just replace "fiery" with something else and you'll get another element. For example, "show your watery form" would conjure a hovering ball of water.

"The hawk, the vessel of the mighty Sun God, comes on lighted wings. As the great fire in the sky rises in the east, you are awakened. Your slumber during the darkness has been _cast aside_! Glide _forth_ as the messenger to these lowly mortals. Harm not the innocents and let them _see_ your magnificently shining form!": This is a spell taking power from the Sun god in ancient Egyptian mythology: Ra. Supposedly, he is associated with the hawk. The sun if a giant ball of fire and thus I felt the hawk in the spell would have to be made of fire.

**TBL**: Hope you enjoyed it. None of those italic interrupters in this one. You can count on them being in the next chapter, though! XD Once again, god/goddess info is taken from Wikipedia. Correct me on anything if you feel you need to.

**The few. The proud. The strong. The reviewers. Be a reviewer today. Help your writer.**

_1/29/2012_


	4. Year of the Beast

Scourge – Year of the Beast

**TBL**: Hey, fans. Ummm... sorry for the wait (almost four months since last time). Though, I hope the length of this monster (18,020 story; 20,490 total) will make up for it. I'll leave you to it, then. After all, this _is_ 40 pages typed. As an afterthought, make sure you read the _NOTES_ if you happen to be confused. Though, reading all of them might take a while.

**Just to warn y'all, there's a hugely small scene of slash later on. And no, I'm not going to _section it off_.**

Grab onto that handlebar and hang on tight 'cause we're ridin' hard and ain't no seat belts allowed.

**Disclaimer**: I, Tainted Blood Lust, do not own neither the Harry Potter series nor Naruto. They belong to their respective owners. I _DO_, however, own this plot (sort of). Please, no stealing.

Also, the definition for 'scourge' is directly from Wikipedia's sister dictionary/thesaurus website. Therefore, it is not mine.

Enjoy.

X

SCOURGE

(_n._) a persistent pest, illness, or source of trouble, cause of suffering to people

X

**July 27, 1352**

I was in –

_the jaws of the monster, a dark place far from unwanted salvation_

– Knockturn Alley again, this time bartering in a dreary, little Potions shop tucked away in a shadowy corner at the end of a street off the main branch. I was doing my best to haggle for –

_sweet, sweet ambrosia that sung to one's body, asking to submerse it in **ecstasy**_

– unicorn's blood, apparently a rare commodity among wizards, Dark or otherwise, even if most of it was forcefully taken. It was a skill that transcended the barriers between magical and non-magical and one I was quite good at, having done this many times before as part of my _duties_ for the Dursleys. However, it had been a long process even convincing the owner that yes, I _did_ want unicorn blood and no, I was _not_ a Ministry official in disguise.

I had had –

_an overwhelming **urge**, a hunger that ascended above all reason and born of starvation for **so**, so long_

– a strong craving for the silvery substance ever since that night in the forest. My dreams were constantly filled with that scene repeating over and _over_ after a while, and I could even see it vividly behind closed eyelids, playing out just the same way.

_The tip of the unicorn's own horn skewered its skull, driven by all the force of the beast. Blood sprayed in all directions, a shower for the most tainted of kings. And the first taste of what the Spirits must feel, a power so alluring and encompassing in its might, was divine._

Since then, I had only killed two more unicorns when the need became too great to –

_hide from all the watching eyes, hold down the thin veil distinguishing demon from human_

– function. So far, no one knew about it, but I knew I couldn't keep doing this, that I needed another way to obtain the blood without always going to the Forbidden Forest. A Potions store that legally shouldn't exist was the perfect answer (seeing as buying unicorn blood was an illegal dealing).

"You're a little young to be buying this," the owner stated, seemingly at a random interval, and gave me a look of –

_fear, pure and raw, that lurked underneath his own conscious thoughts but perfectly visible to those thriving upon such terror_

– skepticism and was clearly convinced he shouldn't sell the blood to me anyway. I was currently disguising myself as a vampire turned at a young age.

_The beast crooned in delight, free after a small eternity of chains. Close to the surface it came, lava churning hotly under thin earth. This skin-deep mask pleased it, inferior yet oh so similar to the beast's real self._

Though I knew I could handle myself fairly well, it would not do to have the denizens of Knockturn – as well as the stalkers of supposed evil – knowing the _Boy Who Lived_ was here. Acting as a vampire –

_hid the beast while exposing it, no one ever the wiser_

– allowed me some leverage in the dealings of Knockturn, serving to intimidate foolish wizards that dared approach and to convince the residents of my natural belonging. It was best used in a situation such as now. Thus, I bared –

_the beast's long dagger-teeth, dripping with death and ready to strike_

– vampire fangs, a simple trick found in a purely Dark Arts book I had bought earlier that week, with a feral expression.

"You think me too _young_?" I asked and then snapped my teeth once with a loud sound, an obvious warning to him. "I'll have you know that my sire turned me five hundred years ago! You know not what you talk of, _boy_."

"Yes, yes," he said hurriedly, treading the line between defiance and cowering. I had noticed it was a contradiction all Kockturn shop owners exhibited. They needed to stand up to the tough clientele of the Alley, and yet complete defiance would get them nowhere. "I will get you what you require."

The man looked nervous, a hand reaching halfway to gray hair in an aborted attempt to swipe through it. He jerkily sent the hand back to his side and turned around to –

_hide from the judging gaze of a great predator, hungry and hideous_

– peruse the shelves behind him. He mumbled under his breath incomprehensible words then took an unmarked vial that was seemingly –

_innocent_

– empty. He pulled out a short, battered wand and waved it with a muttered spell to Epona. The vial's image flickered for a few seconds before a –

_wine for the vilest of creatures_

– substance, quite obviously unicorn blood, was suddenly filling the container. With a critical look to it, the man brought it over and set the vial on the well-worn, wooden table that separated us.

_Its angelic song, a hummed melody from the spirit contained within that vial, reached the ears of the beast. It was as beautiful as it was haunting, enticing in its entirety._

"Your galleons?" he asked, and his eyebrow twitched minutely, wanting to raise in a condescending gesture. However, with my presence, he avoiding that, fearing –

_claws and teeth, nightmares made reality_

– my wrath. I calmly took out a pouch filled with some gold I had taken from Gringotts. It was about five hundred in total, barely a dent in the whole account inherited from my parents. I counted out that amount we had agreed upon, his greedy eyes watching the whole time. I flashed him my spelled canines again, eyes burning with –

_the nature of a tiāngoǔ, war in every step and thunder its breath_

– violence, and his gaze instantly averted. Fear was a heady cloud around him, and my nose took in the scent with joy. I snatched up the vial after handing over all the required coins and inspected it myself. I tucked it into one of my cloak's many pockets and whirled around to leave, not sparing the shop owner another glance.

Only to see Severus Snape as invisible, spelled bells tolled, deep and ominous.

X

Severus Snape was, as he always seemed to be, in a bad mood. This time, however, it was not because of the brats he was forced to teach or even because of Dumbledore. It was because Trelawny, in her ever-present _wisdom_, had seen fit to steal – _borrowing without permission_, she called it – from his potion ingredients stock – again! It was a good thing he had checked if he had the ingredients he needed beforehand, for the potion he had intended to brew was a highly volatile one. He was missing five – _five_! – of the needed components for his potion, something even substitutes – loathe as he was to use them – could not fix. Thus, he had grabbed his cloak and exited Hogwarts in rush, knowing he needed to brew it as soon as possible. Chewing out the crazy Water Arts professor could, unfortunately, wait until later.

Severus, being one to absolutely hate traveling by floo, apparated to Diagon Alley. However, he didn't go to the Diagon potions shop and immediately headed to Knockturn Alley, entering the darkness with confidence. This was his domain, and he did not fear it. His feet took him automatically to where another shop was, the route well-ingrained by now.

On the way, people, faces new and old, eyed him warily. He had a reputation down in the underbelly of the world of wizards, and if that didn't work on the fools, he certainly looked intimidating enough. Because of his fast pace, the onyx cloak billowed behind him like the wings of Typhon, great and terrible. It was an apt comparison, with a fire as dark as midnight blazing in his eyes, fearsome as the serpentine body of the god. Severus, like the many dragon heads of Typhon, kept a watchful, hungry gaze upon all those nearby, jaws with the strength of a hyena ready to snap at the slightest provocation. People with enough sense in them stayed clear of him, even the hardened criminals, wanted for their many sinful deeds. They, perhaps most of all, knew to avoid the professor, that primal animal within everyone in them honed to a javelin's point and able to see an equal in Severus' soul.

The professor, having had years of experience in the vilest of magics, surpassed most of these wary Knockturn-goers, and it showed, as the invisible aura around him radiated darkness. He, back in the days of the war with Voldemort, had quickly made it to the top of the ranks, a favorite for not only his skills in Potions. It had not been an easy feat, but Severus exemplified the meaning of the Slytherin house he came from. Water Arts practitioners were best known for their ambition, a trait Salazar Slytherin had greatly encouraged when still alive. The Dark Lord, known to everyone else as that asinine monicker 'You-Know-Who,' had picked up on this, being one to recognize what he himself highly valued. A tiny part of Severus still wished for the old days, when the blacker side of magic had been encouraged (even if by the Dark Lord, his followers, and no one else), when he had _purpose_. He shoved it away, knowing dwelling on the past did no good.

He, upon exiting his deep thoughts, found himself at the Knockturn Potions shop's well-worn door, unmarked and not indicative of the wonders within. He pushed it open, not expecting to find anyone in there, as it was fairly uncommon knowledge that it even existed. However, upon entering, he found what he least expected.

Harry Potter.

The boy was easily recognizable, though not by appearance. He certainly pulled off his disguise well, able to hide from even those that knew him. Still, underneath the fake vampire exterior, there was that aura Potter carried with him perpetually. It was a wicked, evil thing and revealed the monster within the boy. Oh, Severus knew the student tried to conceal it, and the attempt _did_ work – on most. The professor's soul, his own internal monster, reached out to the boy, the urge to follow him strong for some reason. He could see that Fate had great plans for the younger male, just as he had sensed the same in Voldemort upon meeting the Dark Lord for the first time. And because of that, the man knew, beyond a doubt, that it was Potter.

The question was: just _what_ was he doing here?

Severus thought all this in seconds, staring stonily at Potter in the meanwhile. The boy met his black eyes steadily, not challenging and lacking judgment. That gaze held, though, a hint of curiosity, looking for some sign as to how to plot the next move.

"What might _you_ be doing here?" the professor demanded more than asked with his eyebrow raised in the usual manner of Severus Snape. He did not release the boy's actual name, well aware of the listening shop owner – and feeling it would have been a grave mistake. Potter eyed him a bit longer and then reached into a pocket to hold up a filled vial. In the meager light available, the Potions Master could just barely make out what it looked like, and its identity shocked him. The blood shined with an internal light, thick and clingy on the glass, which was what gave it away. Unicorn blood.

Potter seemed unconcerned with the implications of possessing such a thing, perhaps uncomprehending. Yes, Severus realized as the boy nonchalantly put the vial back into his pocket, Potter was uncomprehending, but it was not ignorance. No, it was an outsider's view of a new world, knowing only their native logic and not understanding of a new and different thinking. Potter simply could not _see_ why humans thought this immoral and _wrong_, certainly knowing, though, that this view existed. He only knew the outsider's logic.

Without a single word, the boy brushed past the man, not sparing his professor another glance. Severus gathered himself and not showing any of his inner trouble, snapped at the owner the list of ingredients he needed. After paying for them and when safely in his quarters in the dungeons of Hogwarts, and only then, did he release his pent-up emotions. He didn't physically react, but clear as day, it showed on his face the terror at the thought of another Lord Voldemort.

X

**August 31, 1352**

At a few hours before sunset, it was already dark in Knockturn Alley. I watched its street-wandering inhabitants through the dirty window in the almost bare room I had rented in one of the rare Knockturn inns.

_They were rats, scurrying in that quick, shifty way these particular rodents did. They were trapped on a ship eternally at sea, unable to escape this life and destined to die with only the company of those that, at their bare core, were copies. They bred only to produce more lowly rats in a vicious cycle. Knockturn's vast maze was a sad place._

Though their actions repeated time and time again, it was still amusing to me. What was the most amusing was what I saw _beyond_ their daily routines. Every time I watched them, I imagined –

_rending flesh from bone, blood oozing its way down thickly to a stomach crying infinitely for **more**_

– delightful scenes, ones that set my blood aflame with an encompassing passion. They all lived their lives below –

_the god they did not yet know_

– me, unaware of what could be and ignorant of their superior. Oh, how I longed to correct this naivety, tell them that they were, in a truthful reality, only mere sacrifices for a greater purpose. My fingers, lying at my side, started to twitch with restrained violence. The grin on my face, already –

_reflecting the beast_

– crazed, grew wider to reveal blood-stained teeth. I had not eaten anything since my last meal, a weedy man I had cornered in the depths of Knockturn, and didn't have the heart to make an effort to clean up. Just thinking of –

_a blade sliding into soft flesh while teeth viciously tore out more than half his throat to graze spinal bones in a seemingly impossible move; an intimate whisper into dying ears, **Harry James Potter**_

– his demise set off the hunger again, and I hastily reached for the few scraps left of the nameless man, eyes gleaming. As quick as a viper, I grabbed a piece and shoved the whole thing into my mouth, little grace in it all.

_How humans could savor the meat of a pig or cow was a thought unthinkable. The flesh of one of their own transcended such inferiority._

Just as I turned back to my entertainment, snack finished, there came –

t_he toll of a bell signaling the trouble to come_

– a loud sound, like the roar of thunder on the horizon. Eyes wide and feral, I whirled around, sensing the presence in my room in the same heartbeat I pulled out my wand in. The sight that greeted me was all too confusing, but the fires of my anger still raged. There stood in front of me a strange creature, a cowering little thing I had never seen the likes of.

_And how strange it was for the first one to bow to be a being bred for bowing. Though a creature insignificant in the scheme of things, its subservience was a thing to savor._

I snarled wordlessly at it, and its too-huge, alien eyes filled with fear, the floppy beagle ears twitching and moving about with their own nervous mind. It then spoke in a squeaky voice, the high-pitched kind that grated on the nerves, "Harry Potter!"

Suddenly –

_falling into that dark pit called Rage, a mindless monster colored the hue of blood_

– filled with the need to **hurt**, I motioned with my wand with harsh, quick movements. I cast the spell without words, seething beyond reasonable thought and a red haze covering my eyes. I was unaware of what I cast, body moving on its own warpath without the thoughts normally needed for such a thing.

Lightning, a deep violet that was almost black, came streaming out of my wand, crackling and vicious. I could feel the heat of it, high and smothering, and the almost-sentience of the creation surprised me, snarling mindlessly in my thoughts with the primal nature of –

_the beast, as if a tiny shard of it were within the lightning_

– a chimera on rampage. However, what was the most unexpected was what the lightning did _after_ it emerged. It did not –

_follow the rules of the universe_

– simply move in a straight line and dissipate upon striking the obstacles in its path. No, it collected itself into a ball floating above the floor, and I could tell it was beyond my command at this moment. It pulsed, tendrils reaching out and pulling back at random. The sphere, still a semi-vague presence in my mind that kept growing in intelligence by the moment, then elongated and started to form –

_an ungodly thing, created unknowingly and yet the greatest of all_

– some shape. I barely noticed the ugly creature popping out of the lightning's projected path and appearing again a few meters away, but I kept it partially in my view, wary of the lightning and thus not wanting to release my sight of it.

"Harry Potter!" the creature tried again and this time realized the error of this. My attention fully focused on it again, heavy and suffocating in its entirety. My wand was already moving to –

_grant the creature the death it fully deserved_

– cast another spell, mouth opening to complete the action.

Then, the lightning _came alive_.

It abruptly formed into a clearer shape, moving –

_like a viper in the grass, prey in sight and ready for the taking_

– fluidly towards the creature, as swift as the element that it was made of. I knew what the form it took was as soon as my eyes laid upon its – no, _her_ – deadly beauty: a drakaina. She, from the waist up, had the naked body of a mature woman, the lightning a 'skin' like a statue carved from pure onyx. She had the regal features, a queen –

_from the depths of the underworld, damned and powerful_

– in her own right, with long, violet hair that flowed in its own, immaterial wind. Sharp, needle-like fangs, small but numerous, could be seen in her open mouth. Below the waist was a large, muscular snake tail colored a charcoal gray with black patterned on it in –

_symbols long lost to humankind, the language of Spirits long since departed to their own Realms_

– unknown runes that were difficult to make out, as they kept moving around the serpentine tail in a random manner. She had no eyes or even eye sockets, just a straight transition from nose to forehead, which was, perhaps, the most unsettling part of all.

The creature did not pop away another time, preferring to snap its gnarled fingers. The gesture was, to me, a useless one, incapable of saving the thing. Then, a split-second later, I was proven wrong as the world froze abruptly, my body stilled in mid-cast and the drakaina made a statue mere centimeters from ripping the creature's head off. There came a wordless hiss from within my mind, and I knew, the answer clear as day, that it was the drakaina. It was a drawn-out, angry call and held a strange accent, crackling like the lightning she was made of with the rumbling of thunder behind it.

The creature definitely felt her intent to kill, for it leaped back, arms crossing in front of its face in defense. Shakily, it backed up even more to put its back against a wall.

_The beast could hear its heart beating wildly, trapped beneath fragile ribs and **begging** to be ripped out with bloody claws._

Its eyes flickered to me, and it recalled its reason for intruding. It opened its mouth to presumably –

_speak of the sacred, **defile** the name with its unworthy tongue_

– call my name but stopped, thinking better of the action. It instead said, "You are in grave danger."

Abruptly, it perked up, becoming vigorous in its passion for its cause. "Hogwarts is not _safe_! You must not go back!"

Not go _back_? To **Hogwarts**? Rage, great and as heated as Vulcan's forge, engulfed me at this –

_heresy_

– _command_. Hogwarts, though I had only stayed there one school year, held a special place in my heart, was a _sanctuary_ to me. To abandon it was a thought unthinkable.

_Hogwarts was a stepping stone to godhood, a necessary tool that could not be lost._

I tried to struggle against the invisible bonds holding me, but I could not move.

_The beast thrashed and snarled and strained against its chains. Its wings longed to ride the winds of Death and bring down its fiery wrath upon the heathens disbelieving and unaccepting of it rule. The fool that dared bind it would experience an agonizing death._

I could feel the drakaina doing the same, her longing for bloodshed and the –

_force of the underworld, her domain, behind it_

– power of Thor's hammer, laced with lightning and swinging down in an inevitable arc. Her presence in my mind and her emotions enhanced my own, only fueling my struggles against this foreign magic. The creature sensed this, and the effort of holding us in place showed on its ugly face. Still, it again attempted to persuade me.

"You must not go!" it shouted with enthusiasm. In its excitement, it forgot what mattered most. "Harry Potter-"

_And the universe exhaled mightily, a gust made of the winds of change and fate._

The spell, in the face of my anger that had reached a new summit, immediately broke after the last syllable left its mouth. I was _free_ once more but not close enough to reach the creature first, as the drakaina's momentum carried her there quicker. Her claws dug deep to get a good grip as needle-teeth buried in the skin of its face. Savagely, she ripped the skin off, blood following in its wake. The thing screamed, a –

_sweet melody_

– cry filled with pain and terror mixed with that hint of disbelief a soldier feels after the blast of a landmine has torn off a limb. As it screamed, more blood rushed out with nothing to hold it back. It was an intriguing thing to see pure, raw muscle move unhindered by skin, tendons and ligaments a stark white against the dark crimson of uncooked meat.

Its eyes bulged obscenely in their sockets, and I felt the need to pluck them out for later display, trophies well-earned. And thus, moving forward while putting away my wand, I did so. The drakaina backed off without any command, even if her form shifted in obvious impatience. Quick as a viper and before the creature realized it, I had my hands, one to each eye, curling around their spherical shapes, claws cutting through bone and muscle like soft butter. I pulled them out with gleeful force, their previous owner screaming all the while. The thing fell over to land in the small lake of its own blood.

_It was a scene worthy of art, and what a grand painting it would be, poetry in motion forever preserved._

The screams tapered off as –

_Charon reached out a thin, rotting hand in demand for payment to cross Styx, one last trip through a river of departed souls_

– it quickly died of blood loss.

_Death's icy hands gripped its soul and departed on the wings of shadows and smelling of sulfur._

I inhaled the imaginary scent of brimstone and then looked to the drakaina. As I looked at her, our –

_souls met and twined in the dance of lovers, two halves of a whole, reuniting_

– eyes did not lock, but some message nevertheless passed between us.

"**I am yours**," she said, the deep rumble of thunder coating her words spoken in Parseltongue. She nodded once in –

_acknowledgment of a million things not spoken_

– respect. Then, with the sound of a raging storm finally upon its victims, which –

_was familiar in some way, a missing piece from the back of the mind come home_

– rang loudly, her beautiful being of lightning disappeared. I, in the depths of my black soul, felt her presence, heavy and demonic, settle within me.

X

**September 1, 1352**

_I met __**him**__ today_, was written sloppily, hurriedly in the blank-paged diary, the excitement she felt bursting from those four words. The ink sunk into the page, disappearing unnaturally, even by magical standards. Quickly, words not her own faded into view to replace what she had written, and she got the feeling of an intense hunger fueled by curiosity, not an unusual emotion to be projected.

_What was he like?_ She giggled, feeling a warmth course through her at the thought of actually _having_ a real friend, a dream she had had many times before. She was _so_ lucky to have found the diary, to have found Tom Riddle. An involuntary grin, wide and happy, spread across her lips as she wrote back all the adjectives that even then could not fully describe the wonder that was Harry Potter. As she detailed out things both imagined and perceived as real about him, she knew that she was in love. Ever since hearing that first bedtime story of Harry's grand heroics, she knew she was destined to be his.

_**Hero worship**_, her brother Ron would mutter under his breath darkly. _**Hero worship is what it is.**_

But no, it wasn't _hero worship_. It was love, pure and simple. It had to be.

She and Tom talked about various things (mainly Harry) from then on, and as the conversation continued, that warm feeling of friendship grew stronger. It grew into a possessiveness that rivaled a dragon protecting her clutch of eggs, a parasite that latched unto her mind and slowly took over her bit by bit, transforming her centimeter by centimeter, and though vaguely and only peripherally aware of it, she was okay with that. Even if she didn't wholly understand the implications of such a feeling with the naivety of an eleven year old.

She was in the middle of writing a reply to one of Tom's inquiries when the door to her current domain opened. The boy who came through – without knocking! – was one of her brothers, Percy Weasley. Paling a bit, she quickly closed the diary and fumbled in an attempt to hide it from him. Percy, looking around the space with a bored gaze, spotted his sister and got a brief look at her diary. His demeanor became a bit more interested, and his stare upon her tense form was intense.

"Hello, Ginny," he greeted her after a moment of silence in which she bowed her head to avoid his gaze and hide her blush. The curtain of curly, orange-red hair did nothing, however, to shield her from his intrigue. He inevitably asked, "What do you have there?"

Ginny's head abruptly snapped up, blazing eyes meeting his in a challenge. Of what, Percy didn't know. Her eyes flashed something disturbing and anger-filled, and her brother could have sworn they turned _red_ for that brief moment. He didn't seem to notice taking a step back, eyes wide and mind rejecting of this image. Hallucinations, he figured, nothing but figments of the imagination cooked up by a brain tired from his pre-school studying.

"Nothing," she whispered harshly, and it was practically a hiss, something dark and foreboding in that one word. Her hand was absently petting the slim wand in her lap, a silent malice in that simple repetition. Percy swallowed past the lump in his throat and smiled weakly. He felt like asking her if she was alright, what was _wrong_. Something prevented his concerned questions, though, and the boy's mind refused to name it, as that would make it all the more real.

"Okay," he agreed simply. His smile fell, and he averted his eyes, his sister's own gaze overwhelming. Percy gave an awkward goodbye and left to continue his prefect duties. He told himself he wasn't rushing out and that it wasn't an escape.

X

**October 31, 1352**

Flitwick's Wind Arts class had just ended, and I was making my way to lunch in the Great Hall. It was a mindless journey, as I knew the passages of Hogwarts well. I was reviewing the spell Flitwick had taught us in my mind to keep myself –

_from grabbing the nearest student to claw, bite, **consume**_

– occupied. It wasn't an easy thing to do, as the cravings for human flesh and unicorn blood were slowly –

_bringing out the vast ocean that was the beast to submerge and drown_

– overcoming me. I had lately become restless, wanting to –

_spread wings of strife and shadow and take to crimson skies_

– run free. I had been more silent than usual (which didn't really amount to much). Hermes understood in his own way and also remained silent when in my company. By now, most of the other students had learned to avoid –

_their potential demises by some painful, messy manner_

– me at all times.

_It was a double-edged arrangement. The silence was blissful, and yet to get the opportunity to gaze upon muscle moving under the thin, delicious barrier of skin was a temptation equally so._

The route I was taking was a sparsely populated one, and thus, I was surprised when I saw a cluster of students huddling in a semicircle around a section of wall. I was about to dismiss it as something stupid and childish but getting closer, realized that Dumbledore was there, his voice unusually strict and serious. Something –

_foretelling, like a prophecy from the veiled Skuld, a prediction that bound even the mightiest of gods_

– stormy was underlining it. I neared the edge of the crowd, sticking to the shadows of a nearby alcove, to listen in.

"Mister Weasley," Dumbledore said in a manner similar to Snape, that cold, cutting tone that would have been a yell with anyone else.

_The power wafting off of the Headmaster was a heavy sensation, and while few could sense such a thing, it gave away the deep well of his anger. There was a creeping fear there too, like a remembered and reviled enemy coming back from the slumber of the dead. They were an insidious and parasitic pair, able to fell most men with a silent, unavoidable force._

I couldn't see through the crowd to see which Weasley it was, but then, another spoke above the whispers of the crowd, the words giving away his identity as George Weasley. "I-I didn't... Honest!"

Surprisingly, there was no sign of the boy's twin and partner-in-crime, Fred, or another other Weasleys, who, with the exception of Ron, protected their own with the ferocity of a mother dragon. I shifted to try and get a better view and as I did so, caught a brief glimpse of –

_the substance that set the body on fire and engulfed the senses, the only **worthy** drink_

– blood on the wall, still wet and making its way slowly down with its usual viscosity. I could barely make out that it formed the shape of words but not exactly what they were. I growled softly as a tall student, a fifth year perhaps, moved to block my gaze.

"The evidence is irrefutable," Dumbledore continued. He didn't go into what this evidence was, but I picked up from the whispers that Weasley had been the first – and only – one on the scene before some professor had found him. _Definitely guilty_, they hissed to each other, laughing in little, mocking chuckles.

Dumbledore said something else, but it was lost, as McGonagall, silent until now, started to break apart the crowd, pitching her voice higher than the students' with little trouble. I, intending to –

_forcefully wedge a way into the impossibly knotted yarn called fate_

– stay, blended deeper into the shadows, becoming one with the black. The clusters of students broke up, dispersing like spilled water in all directions to destinations unknown. When they left, the only ones remaining were Dumbledore, Weasley, McGonagall, and me. The Fire Arts professor also departed after a silent, subtle nod from the Headmaster. Said wizard then turned to the Weasley, who was glaring at the floor with the bitter anger of a man wronged. He also held a certain lack of hope in his whole body, seeing –

_the future that was rushing to meet him with wicked, poisonous claws, snarling out words of his utter destruction_

– a vision only he could view. He looked up only when Dumbledore cleared his throat loudly then followed the older wizard when he beckoned, the Weasley holding an air of one off to the gallows.

The blood on the wall called my gaze sweetly, and unresisting, I finally made out what the words were.

_Open is the Chamber door_

_This contained Secret of lore_

**WILL HUNT THEM DOWN**

The first two lines were almost neat for a writing done in blood, in cursive and perfectly spaced. The last four words, in contrast, were made angrily in large, jagged letters, as if –

_an alternate personality had take over, that familiar devil inside waiting to make its move_

– written by another person entirely.

I got closer to the writing, nose pressed against the mostly-dried blood and inhaling its scent deeply. The familiar smell excited me, heat rushing through my body and a wide grin forming. Shuddering and unable to resist the call, I licked a path up the **D** in **DOWN**, an attentive lover in my tasting of what I craved. A small moan, deep and passionate, escaped me. It was Nirvana, this small sample, yet still left me without satisfaction, a drop in the ocean of my want.

A noise, loud in the otherwise silent corridor, came to me, and it was obviously the sound of something falling. I did not –

_jump away in shame, adhere to the normal perceptions of this society, as theirs was a logic flawed_

– cease my path across the word I was lavishing my attention on. I twisted my head ever so slightly, still devouring but looking out of the corner of my eye for this intruder. I caught a glance of the youngest Weasley, a girl whose name I couldn't be bothered to remember. Her freckled face was pale, something like horror in her eyes with a separate, hidden delight lurking there. It was an alien emotion for one such as her to have here.

_The beast sensed a companion, a rival in all things vile and forbidden. It longed to reach out and coil around the other, to test and question and **extinguish**. Competition, though a curiosity to be studied, was unwanted in a world where staying predator, the only one to hunt, was alone in being the way to survive._

Her mouth was open in shock, though at the message or me, I did not know.

"_Oh Spirits_..." was her only verbal response to the scene, the broken whisper of someone whose world was falling to pieces in front of them. She shook her head, long, orange-red hair flying into disarray, in denial of some evidenced deed. A nagging idea developed in my mind that said she might have been the one to paint this beauty. It would be, on the surface, an uncharacteristic thing to do, but there was a –

_leviathan, eyes bright and gleaming with the light of a thousand dying suns, peering out from the depths of her self, fins breaking the stormy waves teasingly, threateningly_

– creature, parasitic and growing, that fed from her, twisting thoughts and perceptions. I could see the paranoia in her, the constant need to check and double-check to make sure this deceit's strength held.

_The work of an inferior, no doubt._

The girl let out a quiet, frightened whimper, tears beginning to leak out in small bursts from her sorrowful eyes.

_She knew she was playing with fire, something bigger than herself. It was a grand design she held little place in, and a mouse amongst the snakes was she. She was bound to be devoured whole, slowly and painfully digested in the belly of one greater than her. She could not escape from it, for this was the basilisk, the mighty Snake King whose paralyzing gaze held no rival and whose venom had no first._

With a –

_banshee's wail, the signal of death to come_

– mournful cry, she turned around and fled. I watched her run –

_into the labyrinth, pursued by shadowy foes, immaterial in imagination and yet just as deadly as those material in reality_

– from the pain of it all with interest. There was one inquiry that rose above all else in that moment.

"Where will you go, little mouse?"

X

**December 3, 1352**

The yellow-white moon was pregnant and shining with radiance, casting her pure light upon the half of the world currently in her kingdom. It streamed through the glass-covered windows of Hogwarts to create tombstone shapes on the floor of the corridor I was wandering through. It was a wonderful night, and –

_the beast hungered for the chance to bathe in Tsukiyomi's rays, to become one with the night_

– I, unable to resist the temptation, took full advantage of it. A tiny quirk of my lips displayed to the moon and shadows my delight in this simple journey. No one disturbed me, and my evades of the patrol in Hogwarts were nonexistent, for, somehow, I never chanced upon them.

_It was their lucky night tonight. The beast would have ripped anything that blood coursed through in its path if their fates crossed. It bubbled under the surface, closer than ever and a half-participant in the conscious actions taken._

Then suddenly, a sound disturbed my evening and roused my temper, the inferno beneath my skin and bones directing its attention after a brief slumber.

"**Rip and... tear...**" it whispered with a rough, raspy voice that brought to mind dried reptile scales sliding over stone. That voice held a power behind it, something ancient and knowledgeable. It was familiar in a distant way, the call of some animal reappeared from its hiding after that first, memorable glance ages ago. I struggled to remember it as –

_the beast pushed against the bonds holding it, snarling out in a fit of rage left uninterpreted_

– it said something else.

"**Hungry... soooooo hungry...**" it rasped, and the sheer longing for violence and flesh was identifiable and mirrored in me. My stomach clenched, making its displeasure known, and my mouth filled with excess saliva, tongue projecting the taste of what I could have.

"**Flesh!It nears!It nears!**" the voice suddenly shouted, a crazed, wild joy in it that made the words fuse together into one. My own being echoed the excitement, even if I could not see the potential prey. A low growl escaped me, and my fingers twitched with the urge to dig in.

Then, _he_ rounded the corner to come within my sight.

It was Draco Malfoy, his blonde hair luminescent in the moonlight and with –

_the scent of him cloying in the beast's nostrils, a heady perfume_

– a forlorn look on his face. He sighed as his gray eyes were attatched to the full moon outside, not noticing my presence in the slightest. I didn't even bother with stalking through the many shadows, body trembling in anticipation yet feet silent on the stone floor.

The thought briefly crossed my mind that, perhaps, this wasn't the best of ideas. Killing a student didn't bother me, so much as that it was a murder at Hogwarts, where I was likely to get caught in time. Though, I realized, I could put the blame on George Weasley, who, even if he wasn't the one actually writing in blood, would be the most likely one those in a position of authority looked at. It wouldn't be too difficult to lead them to believe he was guilty.

When I stood directly behind Malfoy, he still didn't sense me. All the better for him not to fight, then. I reached out a finger to caress his naked neck, long nail digging into skin to betray my intentions. The boy startled with a yelp and turned around, eyes wide and terrified.

_The background cooing of _**prey**_ from the unidentified voice was a chant that the beast copied, matching repetition for repetition with vigor. It had been **so** long since the last taste._

I leaned in to quickly cover his mouth with my hand, the other moving down to grasp his slim, fragile neck.

_His screams could be let loose later to be bottled up inside the glass of memory. It would be a wine most sweet._

He wanted to yell, I could tell, but was unable to make naught but a whimper. While he was shocked for a brief moment, I cast a Dark spell to hold him.

"Great snake, your shadowy coils do bind the world. Let the scales of Midgard reach down to this mortal. Biting your tail, there is no escape."

Black ropes, immaterial but realistically shaped, came into existence to chain Malfoy's wrists, ankles, and abdomen to the wall behind him. I let go of his neck to grasp silky strands of hair then pulled his head forcefully back. I got closer and licked a path up his neck, ending at the hastily pulsing jugular. My tongue stayed on there for a moment, just –

_putting an experience to my faceless fantasies of bloodshed_

– feeling the blood pumping under it, begging to be released. Malfoy started to squirm a bit, but with only a thought, the ropes curled tighter around him to painfully prevent any sort of movement. A steady stream of whimpers continued under my hand.

I took my tongue off of his neck when he tried biting my hand, which I also removed. Immediately, he began to scream.

"Help!" he cried out hoarsely, tears running in steady rivers down his cheeks. "_Help!_"

I cut off that third call for a savior by using my only other option available. As my lips crashed roughly against his, it was –

_the start of a new addiction, a drug taken in gleefully_

– not a gentle or intimate kiss but forceful and unwillingly placed. If Malfoy could have moved, I could tell that he wouldn't have, even then. Taking advantage of this, I tilted my head for better access and sought out his tongue. Without a second thought, I placed my sharp teeth around it then bit down harshly to cleave it in two. Blood immediately filled his mouth, accompanied by –

_the sensation of swallowing a scream, taking it in to course through the bloodstream_

– a muffled scream, and I pulled back, prize in mouth. In front of Malfoy, who looked ready to faint, I loudly chewed the meaty appendage, savoring each and every one like a fine wine. The taste exploded on my taste buds, making me moan in pleasure. Through half-lidded eyes, I watched the copious amounts of blood spilling out of his mouth and down his chin. I captured the image as I swallowed the piece of his tongue, branding it into my mind for later perusal.

I pushed up against Malfoy again to devour his blood and tears and in doing so, noticed the hardened piece of flesh between my legs. A spark of pleasure coursed through me as I brushed against him, so seeing no wrong in it, I ground my hips against his. This took the excitement to new heights, creating the haze of arousal to wrap around rational thought. As my hips moved uncontrollably, I clamped my teeth around his jugular, which stifled the continuous chain of groans. Feeling the trapped blood left me crazed, so I tore out his vein. Crimson followed in its wake in a large spray, coating my face frozen in rapture and my whole front. For once, I didn't really feel it, as a typhoon of pleasure overcame me, sparks playing behind my closed eyes, and mind blank of everything, I could only vaguely register my own scream.

When I came –

_back from the blanketed, rose-tinted world in which everything was bliss_

– down from my high, I took in the scene we made, engraving it into my memory. I slowly removed myself from Malfoy's corpse, not wanting to –

_leave that wonderful place of make-believe_

– let go just yet. I closely observed the work of art he now was, absently licking the blood from my fingers in a feline fashion. I stopped when I heard the distant sound of approaching footsteps. I growled shortly in annoyance. Why couldn't I be allowed to _enjoy_ this? Quickly, I cast a spell to summon a blade of fire extending from my wand's tip and used it to cut off his left arm, the scent of burning flesh filling my nostrils. After taking it, I released the bonds tying the shadowy ropes to existence and ended the Fire spell also. I wrapped my –

_mask around the beast, once again veiling the wicked truth_

– invisibility cloak around my form, including the arm that I couldn't wait to take a bite of. And just in time. As I began my journey back to Gryffindor Tower, I passed the professor who came upon the scene, moving ghost-like and unnoticed.

It was Narcissa Malfoy.

Her wail of soul-deep shock and sorrow –

_was a thing of beauty, a soloist's greatest masterpiece_

– echoed quite loudly at the sight of her dead son. She immediately ran over to him, chanting out his name desperately in broken, half-disbelieving screams. A crocodile's grin spread across my lips at this, her useless calls resounding over and over in my mind.

How wonderful it was to cause such devestation.

X

**January 13, 1353**

"Alright, class!" chirped that fool of a Light Arts professor, Gilderoy Lockhart, in that highly irritating, high-pitched voice of his. "_Today_, we're going to do a little something _extra_."

The way he spoke every word made what he said sound disturbingly sexual and condescending at the same time, an odd combination that I could tell –

_put images of forced deeds and favors in the heads of his students, making their skin crawl and thoughts turn paranoid_

– disturbed those he taught. That and he didn't smile, so much as bare too many teeth in a decidedly leering way – all the time. His whole vibe, from the touch-heavy gestures to the choice in flashy robes, screamed of someone dirty and all too interested in –

_innocence, corrupting the pure and sullying their white souls permanently_

– children.

_It was not a kindred spirit the beast sensed but one of greed, of taking without physical means and without blood. His was a mental game, illusions heaped upon delusions, and something to nevertheless respect, this expertise._

"We," he continued, giving a small, sly glance to the Potions professor lurking in a shadowed corner, "are going to have..."

Here he gave an unneeded, dramatic pause.

"Dueling lessons!" His teeth-baring grin only got that much larger, what would have been strained on anyone else. On him it only looked strangely natural. "Isn't that _great_?"

At this announcement, the students perked up a bit, whispering to each other their thoughts on the matter. Lockhart's leer just intensified as he eyed the –

_prime cuts for sale, a mouth-watering feast for his hunger_

– young kids. His gaze, at one point, locked on mine, and –

_the beast intimidated with a roar, subduing with little effort his spirit_

– a certain understanding passed between us, suddenly making him _very_ aware of his barely-concealed predilections. He hastily averted his eyes, and for the rest of class, he was a bit pale.

"Al-" he started with a hoarse voice that gave away his fright then coughed to play it off as a normal thing. Snape, as observant as ever, caught this, if the subtle look in his eyes was anything to go on. Lockhart went on, "Alright, then. Today, we will-"

He was abruptly cut off by Snape's silky drawl calling out, "Parkison and Boot."

The students, upon hearing him, automatically shut up, a deeply ingrained response born in the man's Potions class. They were –

_sheep, mindlessly following the ram_

– obviously confused by this but didn't voice that aloud.

"Parkison and Boot," he repeated in a monotone then, solving their puzzlement, elaborated, "step up on the dueling platform."

Parkison, a rather plain Slytherin girl who bordered on ugly and was late to experience puberty, stepped up to said platform, a raised, wooden construct in a severely-elongated oval shape, timidly. She got on it after a quick, unsure glance to Lockhart, the –

_wolf in sheep's skin_

– apparently more trustworthy-looking professor. He nodded to her in a cheerful manner with a wink. Boot, a tall and snobby Ravenclaw boy, walked to the other side and hopped up confidently, a suave smile on his lips.

Snape gave a small lecture as soon as they had gotten on the platform, describing the official process to be preformed before the actual dueling. After that, the two students turned their fronts to each other and bowed from opposite sides.

"May the Spirits guide you," they both said the traditional pre-duel saying, horribly out of synch. They then turned their backs on each other, raising their wands by their sides. There was a tension in the air, heavy and pressing, and the duelers felt it most keenly, rigid in their stances.

_The forecast predicted strife, and the beast trembled with anticipation._

"Begin," the Potions professor snapped. Parkison and Boot immediately began to turn around, spells on the tips of their tongues. They were slow in doing so, compared to –

_a harpy, speedily chasing down her prey and desperate in hunger to snatch it_

– someone who had actually experienced strife, and it amazed me how slow they were. It occurred to me briefly that Hermes would probably be the same, unfortunately. I made a mental note to remedy this; I would not accept such failure from him.

The two's following battle was disappointing, no flashy or powerful spells and naught in the way of actual skill.

"The life of Spirits breathes Wind! The storm of their anger strikes!" Boot cried out, using his Wind affinity in a general spell to summon a short, weak gust that knocked Parkison down, her wand flying off into the crowd. Boot's smile grew cocky, the minor win going to his head. He stepped off the platform with a swagger after Snape announced the obvious win, not bothering to even look at his defeated opponent.

Several more duels proceeded after that, Snape (with occasional 'help' from Lockhart) providing commentary on each one. He was surprisingly fair in his judgments, and we were actually _learning_ from him.

Finally, after ten or so relatively quick duels, he called my name.

"Potter and Weasley."

He didn't say my full name, but nevertheless, my fingers twitched with suppressed violence. A growl almost escaped, but I held it in check.

We both got on the platform with a quiet confidence that was subtle yet so much more powerful than Boot's. We bowed shallowly at a depth that bordered on rude, but neither cared about such disrespect. Our eyes met as we said the standard line, his cold with determination and mine as hot as the Hellfire I could control. With a wary reluctance, we turned around and waited tensely for Snape's signal to start.

"Begin."

Immediately, we faced each other with a speed that awed the –

_pathetic lot watching young Titans battle, mere ants next to manticores_

– audience and made a few gasp. We both started off with small spells to test each other's strength.

"Spirits' Earthly element, show your rolling waves." I flicked my wand down then in Weasley's direction to direct the flow of the spell.

"Oppose your opposite, Windy element," Weasley cast in return with a general counter to mine. The oscillations under the platform stopped as soon as they had started with the introduction of the spell's opposing energies.

We stared each other in the eyes for a moment, a silent –

_opposition of wills, a challenge spoken and yet not_

– stand-off.

Then, the _real_ battle began.

"Cold winds of the North do turn snow. The giantess does brave this cruel blizzard. She harnesses the winter! _Ride_, icy shard-daggers!" Weasley's spell created large, jagged daggers of ice. Their thin forms were clear with that frosty white center the substance always had and glinted, reflecting –

_his nature, deadly and frigid_

– the crowd around us. They hovered around the boy in a rough circle, sentinels of winter. I watched him intently, waiting for his next move. In the meanwhile, we circled each other as best as we could with the platform's shape.

_It was the dance of warriors, an intricate and deadly series of movements._

Weasley then suddenly twitched his fingers, a subtle move I had been looking for. It sent the icy daggers flying toward me with –

_all the intent of Arawn's hounds, tracking the scent of their target and **devouring** the soul with abyssal jaws_

– a speedy force. Quickly, I snapped out a short spell, wand twirling in a downward spiral.

"Chains of the storm, _descend_! Your electric shackles are _forged_ in the Earthly Realm!" Chains made of electricity shot out of the tip of my wand and directed by my intent, wrapped their long lengths tightly around my form, close to my skin yet not touching. And just in time. Weasley's shards crashed into my creations with a mighty crackling noise, sinking their tips in but not enough to touch me. Electricity arched over the shards, turning them to water with an intense heat, and this sent a resulting pulse of magic out that slammed against the barrier meant to protect the audience surrounding the platform. Previously invisible, the strong ward briefly colored to a very light blue before fading back to its unseen state.

Weasley cast a speedy, general spell to control the water made by our colliding spells and directed it to form into the shape of a snake. I flicked my wand several times to change the electric chains into the form of a bear. As his water-serpent tried to strike, however, the chains –

_gained a sentience of their own_

– began to turn into something else. A clawed hand and arm developed to bat away the watery creation and vaporize it into a mist before another appendage formed, followed by –

_the beginnings of the damned queen, beautiful to hide the nightmarish interior_

– a naked, feminine torso and head. Immediately, I recognized her – the drakaina.

"**Master**," came her stormy voice in the language of serpents, the lone word drawn out and said with a malignant type of obedience. The crowd of students around us was completely silent with –

_a vague sense of horror, the primal urge to **run** ringing in their minds loudly as something beyond their understanding forced her way through a portal to this Realm_

– shock. Weasley was still, freckled face pale and –

_peripherally aware of the whole of this great danger and her sheer **need** for destruction in consciousness but fully comprehending of it in that cold, reptilian part of his brain_

– terrified. Snape, whom I could barely see, had a look that suggested a sense of familiarity with this and spoke of a nightmare materialized before his eyes.

"**MASTER**," the drakaina hissed again, now halfway formed and non-eyes searching for prey. As much as I wanted to –

_bathe in innocents' blood_

– let her loose, I knew that it was not the right time to do so.

"**RETURN**," I commanded in our shared talent, willing her to go back to where she came from. The drakaina stopped shaping herself from the chains and cocked her head like a dog trying to figure out the situation.

"**If Master wishes it...**" she replied reluctantly, a spark of anger hidden in her tone. Order received, she began to –

_retreat to her own world, a vile place filled with the worst of man's imagination_

– reform back into chains, lightning-based body unraveling like threads from clothing. It was a quick process, leaving my audience little time to –

_return to reality_

– adapt. Snape, I noticed, was the first to come back, though his haunted expression remained. However, it was guarded well behind impassiveness; the little things gave it away. Weasley was next to do so, followed by the students and, lastly, the Light Arts professor.

"Class dismissed," Snape announced, his voice loud in the otherwise silent room. The students didn't understand at first, but then Snape repeated himself with more emphasis, "Class _dismissed_."

Suddenly, realization dawned on them. There was then a rush to exit, nervous students pushing and shoving to –

_run from something that didn't factor into their normal worlds, gone but lurking_

– get away. Weasley and I were the last to leave, Snape's intense gaze watching us the entire time.

X

**May 20, 1353**

Aurors, the law force of the Ministry of Magic, had come to Hogwarts, their presence abrupt yet expected. They had arrived because there had been another mysterious death in the school accompanied by yet another message written in blood – the seventh one (excluding mine of the Malfoy boy). The whole of Hogwarts was scared and paranoid, seeing monsters lurking in the shadows at every turn. It was inevitable that, after so many deaths, the government would get involved, and they were here to arrest the prime suspect: George Weasley.

Ron and the rest of the school were in the Great Hall having supper when the Aurors burst in, wands and eyes blazing with their perceived justice. As soon as the tall doors had been slammed open and those distinctive maroon robes came into view, Ron stiffened, immediately knowing what would happen.

The Head Auror, robes lined with a telling white, lead their formation as they marched toward the headmaster. Dumbledore, who was in the middle of eating, just continued chewing nonchalantly and after swallowing his pork, gently patted his mouth with a napkin in an out-of-place gesture.

"Yes, gentlemen, how may I help you?" he asked with a perfectly polite tone, as if he didn't know what this was about, as if they were at some _tea party_. However, Ron could see that Dumbledore's sky blue eyes weren't twinkling in their usual manner. They were instead flinty and resolute, yet there was a deep sorrow in them, a decision made with great reluctance. It may have been the Weasley's imagination, but the wrinkles of old age on the powerful wizard's face seemed that much more pronounced in that brief moment.

An Auror to his superior's right took a scroll from the magically-expended space of his pocket and opened it with a little 'hehem' of self-importance. He waited in a stiff, exact position until the Head Auror signaled to his fellow that he could start reading.

"George Gideon Weasley," he announced, his nasally voice loud and young. The entire hall was silent, listening intently with vindictive ears. Ron, in that moment, felt a great hatred for his fellow students rise up in him. Though he didn't hold any love for his brother (or any of them), Ron nevertheless resented all of them for condemning George. It was a strange sort of possessiveness but one he didn't question. To examine it further would require looking deep into himself, a place he didn't dare go. "You have been hereby called to trial for suspected crimes. You have been charged with eight accounts of murder. Peacefully hand over your wand and surrender yourself immediately. Further charges will be added if you resist this arrest. Thank you."

The Auror who had read handed the scroll to his superior, who then passed it off to Dumbledore. The old wizard took it with a calm demeanor and set it to the side without a single glance. He stood up gracefully, like a king before his subjects, and cleared his throat, even though everyone was already devoting their whole attention to him in silence. He asked, "Mister George Weasley, will you please come here?"

George, sitting stiffly at the Gryffindor table, a rabbit frozen by the hungry gaze of a wolf, had been paralyzed so far, but with this polite request, he snapped out of it. He abruptly got up, all eyes trained on him with nasty gazes to accompany their thoughts. Ron was, perhaps, the only one who did not stare, repulsed by what was happening and not wanting a memory of this. If he looked now, it would haunt him forever, this last view of his brother.

The boy pushed back his chair with a harsh sound, scrambling backward and almost tripping over it in his panic. His terror and vivid imagination of scenarios were obvious, and yet the children of Hogwarts eagerly lapped this up like a sweet wine, wanting to watch the pure _suffering_ of another human being. Human nature, Ron decided, was a vile thing.

Despite knowing there was no escape from this torture, George attempted to run, to flee from the world and its injustices. He didn't get very far. A nameless Auror, watching carefully for such an action, quickly fired off a spell to knock George unconscious. The red light easily found its target, and the boy crumpled to the ground, barely avoiding a broken nose.

"_NO!_" Fred, George's twin brother, could finally take no more. He made to run to George, but two Gryffindors beside him also stood up to hold him back. He struggled in their grasp mightily but could not break it. He gave up, slumping in the two's arms and watching with dead eyes as the Aurors dragged his twin away. With tears flowing fast down his face, Fred wailed in the cries of an animal destined to die slowly, life slipping away like water with each passing second, "_Nooooo..._"

It was a heartbreaking scene, but those cruel eyes watched this with entertainment. Ron shut his own eyes, trying to block it all out. In the safety of his own mind, he too wailed in what he refused to identify as sorrow. The Great Hall's doors shut with the final sound of a fate being sealed, and Ron, thinking it was over, opened his eyes. In his direct line of sight was Percy. The self-righteous prefect had a smug expression that screamed of a situation happening in a way he favored.

"That _murderer_! I'm quite glad he was finally taken away," he proclaimed, that annoying voice rising above the sudden roar of whispers that had erupted. A hot rage, uncontrollable and blinding, took a hold of Ron and was the only thing in his thoughts, greedily consuming them. Revenge, he vowed, would be his one day. For it not to be was an impossible concept.

X

While everyone was feasting in the Great Hall, I was away, having my own meal in the Forbidden Forest. I had once again –

_forever stained my soul_

– killed a unicorn, a task made easier by all the practice I had so far had.

_Its last, dying noises still echoed mentally. It was a soothing melody with an addictive quality._

I had torn open the creature's stomach with my beloved dagger, the one I had bought in a Knockturn shop during last summer. It was a beautiful piece of work, made of a rare, elven metal and charmed with over a dozen spells. It also had been dipped in a potion that when it came into contact with anything, secreted a corrosive acid. The acid was a bit slow-working but did its job well. The weapon and additions had cost quite a mound of galleons but were well worth it.

After slicing it open, I reached in carefully, avoiding the light green acid that was chewing through the skin and muscles. I pulled out the long string of organ that was the large intestine with haste as –

_the beast's hunger_

– impatience ran through my body, making my whole form shake violently every so often. I brought it up to my nose, inhaling deeply the scent of death and bloody meat.

_The beast growled low in satisfaction. Though not human, it was a tasty meal worthy of consumption._

I brought the organ to my lips without delay and tore off a piece. I chewed it with vigor and quickly swallowed, forgoing savoring it in favor of getting what I craved, like a bear starved after a long, cruel winter. I greedily devoured the whole thing in mere minutes.

_The hunger was seemingly without end, a drop trying to take the place of an ocean. Full and true fulfillment was at the end of an undoubtedly long trail._

I plunged my hand next into the wet, squishy innards and under the ribs to grasp the unicorn's still heart. I pulled it out and had to use a bit of strength in the process. Once I held it before my eyes, I admired it with a wonder that never faded. It was such a small thing, having once fueled the bodily functions of a foal I estimated to be at about one year old. Still, it was as beautiful as all those before it. All unicorn hearts were this strange pearly white color, as were all their other organs (probably having something to do with the reason for their similarly-colored blood). They tasted a bit –

_less like perfection_

– sweeter than the blood, but it was a satisfactory flavor. Unable to hold back anymore in the face of these remembrances, I finally opened my jaws –

_in the manner of a snake, seemingly impossible but only yet another of Mother Nature's gifts_

– wide to engulf the whole heart, swallowing after a minimal amount of chews. I closed my eyes in bliss, and a small, pleased sound escaped me.

Abruptly, the mood was ruined by the noises of something crashing through the forest in a hurry. I reluctantly pulled away from my meal and with hawk's eyes, tried to pinpoint the source. It turned out to be a _someone_, the human form, short and distinctively feminine, that came into view rushing to the far left of my position. She crossed one of the few patches where the dying sunlight shone through the thick foliage, and her hair color, a particular orange-red, was revealed.

It was Ginny Weasley.

Though my meal was important, this seemed to be more intriguing. As the girl ran past, she didn't notice me at all, and I could see that her eyes were glazed in –

_that half-awake state in which dreams seemed reality and what was real was viewed as just an elaborate fantasy_

– an odd fashion. This gained my attention, and thus, abandoning the foal with some regret, I ran to follow her. I didn't bother with stealth, as she took no notice of me being there. Brittle, dry branches cracked loudly under our feet, and the living ones whipped us in retaliation as we forced a path through the forest. It was dark, but I could see just fine, as I had cast a spell to aid in this earlier before my hunt. Weasley, I could definitely tell, had not done so, thus her movements were clumsy and uncoordinated. Several times, the girl tripped over a log, only to immediately get back up and continue at that rapid pace.

I followed her for a while, the distance we traveled completely unknown to me, and it was clear we were now deep in the Forbidden Forest. As we went on, a very large, ancient tree started to come into view. It had a pearly white bark that, like metal, shined, and the other shade it shined was a light mint green, even without much light. The thick branches were bare of any leaves but held barely visible fruits, black as the night and wrinkled, as if they were rotten. A sweet and minty scent filled the air, and as we got closer, it only grew stronger.

Weasley, at about ten meters from the great tree, somehow began to run even _faster_ toward it.

_It was a joyous thing, the last of the path to the City of Gold and a goal long-imagined._

She made her way to the only low-hanging branch and plucked off one of the ten or so fruits on it. She examined it briefly with the rapturous look of one gazing upon their salvation, upon a Spirit materialized. She bit into it slowly, eyes closing in utter bliss, and clearly savored each chew. When she finished it, her eyes remained shut, and Weasley just stood there, face turned to –

_a world of her own making_

– the sky and clearly waiting. For what, I could only guess.

Then, after a brief moment, it came.

Her body started to glow softly with a bright emerald hue, and a warmth even I could feel from my position radiated from her. There was a small spark at her feet, like flint meeting stone, and a flame was born. It grew then wound snake-like around her without doing any apparent harm. The warmth I felt increased in temperature.

_It was an ocean of heat, bringing with it memories to share in its ever-ceaseless, churning way. The shapes of monsters made of angry fire trying to claw their way to a solid existence were so vivid that they seemed to be real._

Within her fiery cocoon, Weasley's body began to disintegrate, appearing to turn to dust which disappeared instantly. I watched with an intense fascination, yearning to –

_become a reborn phoenix as well, to rise from ashes in true immortality_

– find out where she was going. For, even as she crumbled into nothingness, I felt in an inexplicable way that she was still alive, just removed from this place. A strong curiosity rose within me, so I went over to pluck off one of the fruits for myself. I didn't study it for long before sinking my teeth into it. It had –

_the flavor of damnation, bitter and addicting_

– an indescribable taste, one that words could not accurately convey. As soon as I had swallowed the mouthful of it, the sensation of numbness came over me, like being in an ice bath. There was a spark before my feet, and then dark, sickly green flames, long and serpentine, loosely circled me. They hissed and crackled, as if an animal, as they consumed the oxygen in the environment. They did not give off heat but instead were –

_winter's immaterial hands caressing in that cruel, unforgiving manner of all nature_

– cold. The spiral tightened a bit, and a constricting feeling grew in my chest, the vice of this strange magic strong yet exhilarating. I lifted a hand to my face to watch as it crumbled away and then followed the degradation as it continued up my arm. It was a painless process and left some part of me freer and lighter in spirit. The last part to go was my head and with it my view of the forest.

The first thing to come back to me was my knowledge of self, the realization that my existence was material. I quickly discovered that I had eyes and in doing so, opened them. I surveyed my surroundings as the rest came back to me in an experience most surreal. I was in a small study, a comfortable and relaxing room with well-loved furniture and muted, earthy colors. The smell of musty books invaded my nose, coming from the many shelves filled with them. The whole room was without any source of light, but unlit torches had been placed on the walls periodically.

There was only one exit from here, a rather plain, wooden door that was already open. Seeing as that was the only apparent direction Weasley could have gone, I made my exit through it to come into an impersonal, stone corridor. There was a heavy layer of dust on the floor of the passageway and footprints imprinted there, a single person's placed there many times and all in one direction. I made my own marks in the dust as I followed hers, ignoring the occasional hallway that branched off in favor of this route.

It was eerily quiet as I went on, the only sounds being my softly-falling feet and the constant drip of falling water droplets. The stone was icy beneath me, and in trailing a hand absently along the wall, I discovered just how cold it was.

_The beast disapproved of this lack of heat, preferring the rage of an inferno, wild and scorching._

After a –

_countless amount of time, meaningless seconds and minutes and hours passing by with nothing to mark them by_

– while, the light at the end of the corridor had grown to a size that told of its nearness. The frigid temperature did not abate, even as I finally got to the end, which lead to a huge, cavernous room with many, many lit torches. I went further in to see it looked like the grand hall of –

_Odin, radiating a glorious and dominating power, even in the absence of its master_

– some king's castle. Large statues made of a pearly stone that shined as brightly as the day they were made lined a wide path straight from the only other entrance, two closed, stone doors with the carving of some great serpent, to the largest statue that had its back against the wall. The statues were of various –

_deadly nightmares come to life and cursed to be frozen for all of eternity_

– magical creatures, all in reverent poses that worshiped some unknown Spirit yet still retained their violent, chaotic natures in subtle but meaningful ways. Their eyes were not stone but gems set in, colored in many beautiful shades from the rainbow. Upon closer inspection, I saw that each gem trapped a –

_soul, aged and longing to be freed_

– white mist inside that swirled endlessly at a slow pace. The whole effect was stunning yet unsettling.

_The beast wanted to reach out to these kindred spirits, but it was a futile dream._

The largest statue, reaching nearly to the vastly high ceiling, was of a man, noble-faced and arrogant, with a pure obsidian staff in hand that twisted at odd angles, wild and –

_lacking a will to survive, the very essence sucked out of it in a way that was barbaric, unnatural, and sheer **heresy**_

– lifeless. His long robes were made for royalty, and his hair was straight and well-kept. The feature that caught my attention the most was his eyes – deep sanguine rubies containing a black mist that felt malicious even from this distance.

Upon sweeping my gaze along the floor covered in about an inch of water, I saw the Weasley girl's form shuffling slowly and trance-like down the statue-lined path. Curious, I began to follow her. I didn't get very far before she reached some invisible boundary and crumpled to the floor like a puppet –

_whose master had let go, their creation's purpose fulfilled and its existence without further use_

– with its strings cut. The second Weasley hit it with a harsh noise, a faintly white, semi-transparent, ghost-like figure appeared from nowhere at her side. From my position, I could barely make out that he was male and dressed in what appeared to be a Hogwarts uniform. He was tall, and I estimated his age to be about fifteen or sixteen, perhaps seventeen.

My first step toward –

_a new life, hidden and waiting for the right trigger_

– him made a soft sound as my foot landed in the water's edge, and he sharply turned around at this, surprise and annoyance very briefly crossing his face. The expression that stayed was cocky and challenging, that of someone assured in their supposedly superior position. My own face was stony, revealing nothing, but I knew my fierce green eyes –

_revealed the beast and its bottomless vat of rage, ready to meet this unspoken challenge with the full force of its might_

– were darkened with malicious intentions and an eagerness for bloodshed. This unexpected reaction caused him to rid himself of his outward arrogance, a determined look taking over.

"I cannot allow any witnesses to my revival, _boy_," he said with a deep, drawling voice, eyes turning hooded as a small, almost intoxicated smile slowly formed. The thoughts of his demise grew and raged like wildfire in my mind, burning all others to ashes.

_**You'll regret ever being **_born**_, boy!_**

Vernon's voice echoed horribly in my head, bringing with it memories better left buried and yet, at the same time, those of that final, glorious moment of their deaths by my hand.

"Revival?" I asked with a low, mocking chuckle. I had no idea what he meant by that, but it was better to –

_let no weakness show_

– act as if I did. "I foresee no such thing happening in your future."

I could tell he thought this to be a denial of the greatness existing only in his eyes, and thus, his entire body radiated indignant anger, form tense and facial features twisted into an ugly, snarling mask.

"I am **Lord Voldemort**," he growled sharply, "and Lord Voldemort _always_ gets what he wants!"

_The beast roared in outrage. It would take no **orders** from anyone._

The boy calling himself Voldemort (a concept I highly doubted) then quickly whipped out a wand to point it at me. Mine was in my hand and ready just as swiftly, pointing in the direction of his torso. He stalked forward like this, trying to be menacing, and I matched him step for step, not needing to put up an act to look vicious and demonic.

"The Binder of Fate intertwines her threads. She controls the grand tapestry of existence with _resolute_ hands. So _weave_ the destiny of this mortal," he cast hastily with two opposing swishes of his wand, and a spell the yellow of nature dying came shooting toward me. It slammed into my half-formed shield, easily destroying the barrier with the sound of breaking glass. Before I could dodge, it hit my torso, knocking the breath out of me as if it were physical. For a brief few seconds, it seemed to have no effect at all. I started to cast another spell but wand waving furiously, only got out the first line.

My world abruptly turned hazy, my surroundings there but with their meaning removed. My eyes stared ahead blankly, body lax as I became trapped in my mind. A strange magic, foreign and powerful, wrapped around my mind, and distantly, I deduced that it belonged to boy-Voldemort.

_Come to me and __**serve**_, it crooned, sickeningly sweet and –

_unnatural, **disgusting** with vile demands that suppressed the beast's nature with rough hands_

– harshly bitter all at the same time. It dug poisonous claws into my thoughts, molding and twisting them to its desire. It was a painful process, and with all my might, I tried to resist it, pushing back with a desperation to stay _who I was_. However, it seemed I was fighting a losing battle, as the full weight of boy-Voldemort and a Spirit's combined magic suffocated my efforts. Though I dreaded to say it, everything, at that moment, seemed hopeless as my doom approached on swift wings. My struggles became feeble, hardly holding them off.

Then, there came the sensation of magma churning in my gut, potent and burning me from the inside out. It spread like fire through my veins to engulf my whole being in its protective heat. I heard a dreadful roar, the whole of natural order's reverse and the screams of infinite tortured, dying souls contained within that otherworldly call, that sounded loudly from everywhere, mental or physical, and echoed off the chamber's walls, as well as those in my head. There was a foretelling silence in its absence, the eye of a hurricane, calm but with inevitable, impending destruction.

The sharp claws raking my thoughts and soul stopped, and a curiosity filled with suspicion from their caster leaked through to me. Undoubtedly, he could sense the brewing chaos and wondered at its cause, especially when he had been so near to –

_ripping apart that control, that **domination** the beast needed, a necessary component to living_

– taking me over. His presence cautiously prodded at this new element, trying to rate its level of threat.

It immediately became apparent that this was the wrong thing to do.

The fog in my mind abruptly disappeared, revealing the hall and boy-Voldemort standing close with his eyes shut in concentration. They snapped open to give me a view of his furious stare, face contorting into a nasty, twisted expression equally as enraged. He stepped forward, obviously intending harm, only to cease, stopped by the heavy magic that filled the air and weighed upon us. I felt a vicious satisfaction at this accomplishment rise up, half my own and intensified by the beast, who bubbled beneath my skin like a corrosive acid that was agonizing and ecstasy all in one breath.

A wide grin, full of threatening teeth that I could feel lengthening and sharpening, formed without any complaint from me. There was an indescribable sensation filling me to the brim, starting with my rapidly-beating heart and spreading outward, as the magic grew thicker and heavier, caressing my skin with small, electric sparks. Then, as the last of it reached the tips of my toes and fingers –

_the heat of a dying star, wheezing out its last breath after blazing for so long, only to expand in one last, final show and the finale that incinerated everything within its reach, remembered by and mesmerizing generations for ages_

– something exploded. The thick blanket of magic was sucked back into my body, fueling –

_the rebirth of a champion, lost in their way only to return from death in a magnificent shift from nearly gone to someone to be written of in legends, a conqueror rivaled in force by nature itself_

– my transformation. I could feel my whole body changing physically, the beast fully breaking away from its bonds to meld with my soul in a way more complete than ever before.

_It was a blissful thing, this exhilarated joy beyond words and the becoming of one, two halves of a whole coming together with a bond transcending all else. There was one being and one only, now._

My face elongated into a long, crocodile's snout, shiny onyx scales growing over my softer, human skin. My eyes became larger, my vision sharpening to beyond hawk-like proportions, and moved to the sides a bit. My hair grew longer and bushier, reaching to mid-back. Scales also appeared on my thickening neck, stopping mid-torso with a few, stray ones here and there past that. My legs and upper body gained muscle mass, expanding to test the limits of my clothing. Curved, black talons came out of my finger and toe nails, and two similarly-shaped, spiraling horns, at least a meter long each, grew from behind my eyes.

Hair, also pure midnight, started thin at my thighs then, continuing down to my ankles, thickened to a coarse fur. My tail bone lengthened then separated into several, new bones thin but powerful muscles following it. Tiny scales covered this new appendage, some periodically turning into barbs along the way, and seven bone spikes, varying in length and the longest reaching seventy-five centimeters, extended from the end in a deadly array.

All of this happened at once, the changes swift and without pain. As the final part, bones and leathery skin grew and moved beneath the skin of my back until two pairs of bat wings, the top set larger than the bottom one by one hundred-twenty centimeters or so of total wingspan, burst out in a spray of blood. With barely a thought, they spread and shook off the blood before folding and settling against my back.

My eyes, slitted almost to the point of closing during this, opened fully to see boy-Voldemort, frozen in shock and a deep fear lurking in his eyes that he failed to hide.

"_**You are so**_ pathetic, _**mortal**_," I said, my voice dark with promises and deeper than usual, each word spoken slowly and with a growl. It was the voice of a creature damned, powerful and echoing, seductive and violent. Boy-Voldemort unfroze and, his panic and desperation obvious, acted to attempt to get rid of me.

"**Reveal yourself to me, Guardian of the Chamber of Secrets! So requests an heir of Slytherin!**" he hastily shouted in Parseltongue, backing away with his wand aimed shakily at me.

His body, though still ghostly, was gaining color at a steady rate, but he didn't seem to notice this, or much of anything. With my new depth of sight, I could see, though barely, a wispy, mist-like cloud connecting the prone Weasley to boy-Voldemort. Her life force was being funneled to him, I deduced with annoyance. I would **not** allow him to rise, to escape the realm of the dead, and intending to break the parasitic bond, I reached out my hand in an instinctive manner, not really aware of how I was going to do this but trusting in the beast.

However, before I could get any further, there was a rumbling sound, the grinding of ancient stone upon stone after an age of staying still. The largest statue's mouth opened wide, like a snake unhooking its jaw to swallow its helpless and paralyzed prey. There was a wordless hiss, most definitely serpentine, from within, before with the sound of hard scales against rough stone, the large, sleek head of a forest green snake popped through. Its abnormally large eyes were each concealed behind an unusual flap of skin much like an eyelid.

"**Who dares to** _**summon**_ **me**?" it demanded as more of its body came out and dropped to the water-covered floor with a surprisingly quiet thump. As it slithered over to boy-Voldemort, red, forked tongue tasting the air, I immediately knew what it was – a basilisk. I growled lowly and threateningly at this challenge, features twisting in a foreign way to a snarl. This basilisk I was clearly destined to fight would be a worthy opponent indeed, and I looked forward to it.

The giant, aged snake started to turn its head in my direction after hearing this and scenting my presence. However, before fully facing me, it snapped back to boy-Voldemort when he spoke to it.

"**You will** _**obey**_ **Lord Voldemort, basilisk**," he demanded, and even if nothing outwardly changed about it, I knew the basilisk was displeased. He pointed to me and continued his command, "**ELIMINATE HIM!**"

Its displeasure increased, the serpent wanting to _eliminate_ the very boy ordering it, but bound by some unknown force, it nevertheless did what boy-Voldemort wanted. It turned to me, mouth open to reveal long, white fangs dripping the most powerful of all known venoms, and hissed out its own version of a battle cry. My muscles tensed and my wings flared out a bit in preparation for our clash. I let out my own roar, loud and menacing, in accept of the challenge laid before me.

The basilisk closed its mouth and lowered itself completely to the floor and then, in the blink of an eye, was moving. Unluckily for it, I was just as fast. As it lunged for me, fangs exposed and ready to inject death, I spread my wings and jumped into the air. With a mighty flap and a resulting gust of air, I rose up to narrowly avoid those snapping jaws. I wasn't prepared, though, for the weakness of them, so when I felt my wings' strength draining, I had to make a hasty landing on top of the basilisk. I landed roughly, almost falling off, but dug my claws into its hide to stay where I was. They didn't go in very deep, as the serpent's thick hide put up a lot of resistance.

The basilisk screeched, more enraged than pained, and began to thrash about, twisting and bucking wildly to dislodge me. I roared loudly, echoing with my own anger, and held on the best I could. Despite my efforts, though, I soon lost my grip with my right hand. I struggled to dig the remaining claws in further, flailing about. When that didn't get me very far, I, in desperation, clamped my jaws around a section, and even though they unhooked to allow a greater diameter, I could barely wrap my teeth around a quarter of its width. The sharp points had a significantly greater amount of skill in piercing the basilisk's hide. The more it struggled, the deeper my teeth went, until the bitter, sour taste of its blood trickled unto my tongue.

Then, I knew I would do anything for more.

I got the strength to dig in my right claws again and dragged them down the scales. I ripped into it and raked again, over and over, until I got through the scaly layer to the muscle and **blood** underneath. I didn't stop and shredded it to ribbons, making the basilisk screech again in agonizing pain. It, still thrashing wildly, made its way, knocking down statues that didn't break or otherwise gain a mark, to one of the walls.

I, completely focused on more, more, _more_, didn't notice this until the serpent slammed itself into the wall. I abruptly came back to myself, but it was already too late. Its second slam hit true, knocking me into the very much solid rock with no small amount of force. Temporarily stunned, I let go, involuntarily falling to the ground below. I hit with a painful crash but without breaking anything, somehow. I recovered enough to barely jump over the tail about to smack me but could not prevent the serpent's next move.

It twisted about to wrap around me, its grip vice-like and inescapable. I tried to slip out but couldn't, and as its coils briefly tightened in warning, I knew I wouldn't try that again. Despite having the pressing urge to fight my way out no matter what, it was clear that this was not the time for that.

The basilisk's head turned to me, eyes glaring heatedly even through their still-covered sockets.

"**You**," it said with a honed patience and ill-hidden anger, then, after tasting the air directly in front of my snout, continued, "**have been a most troublesome pest.**"

I gave a dark, hissing laugh as insane as the glint in my eyes. "**Troublesome?**"

"**You shall make a delicious meal**," it said, ignoring my non-question as its 'eyelids' twitched. My laughs, one after another continually without any sort of control, turned into cackles, strange and raspy coming from these new vocal chords. With gleaming eyes free of fear, I met its concealed gaze with a confidence lacking any thought for consequences.

"**Try all you want!**" I shouted, surely spiting at the death that awaited me. And yet, I somehow felt this was not the end. No, this was merely a stepping stone to _godhood_.

It wasted no time in meeting my challenge, revealing the trademark golden orbs that killed with only a look. I caught a brief flash of them, as beautiful as a poisonous flower, alluring in its faked innocence, before my vision went black. My surroundings and feeling suddenly ceased to exist, as did my body. It was almost the blindness of death, detached from reality and seeing nothing, _understanding_ nothing. Yet still, underneath this blanketing abyss, I could feel the beating of my heart, strong and true. And with this, I knew that I was alive, that I _existed_.

The thick blackness, infinite and all-encompassing, shifted its great mass in response to this revelation, it seemed. It moved slowly, a frog frozen under the earth for winter awakening to its changing environment, coming back from a near-death state to live once more. There was then a heavy pressing upon me, a gravity from all sides, and a presence, ageless as the universe and knowledgeable in the ways of everything, spoke to me with the voice of all living things to exist – past, present, and future. It spoke not in any language but the universal tongue of feelings and instinctual truths.

_A freedom from bonds. An awakening from a long slumber. The everlasting resistance of all that was, is, and will be. The rebirth of a recycled soul._

Before I could comprehend any of this, there was the sensation of free-falling through an abyss with no end in sight. It was the wait, not knowing when it would end, that was the most agonizing. It seemed like forever when, at long last, it ended. It was jarring, being pushed back into my body, into reality, like something huge forced into a tiny jar. It was the reverse of Pandora's predicament, all the sins of the world going back to whence they came.

I opened my eyes and discovered that I was back to the very second I had left. I was still wrapped by the basilisk and staring at it. Boy-Voldemort was still watching from the side lines with that smugly victorious look and aura of uncontrolled chaos bubbling under the surface. The Chamber was still in the state it had been left in.

And yet, the world had completely _changed_.

It was a new face of reality, the layer under what mortals knew to be true. This view was an image superimposed on the normal, a copy that had been horribly twisted and yet was recognizable as being borne of the original.

The Chamber, all the stone, water, and the largest statue, remained the same, only colored in gray-scale. Everything beyond that was an alternate vision. The great serpent was now not flesh, but a skeleton. The bones were held together by nothing visible, except, perhaps, the ghostly spirit trapped in them. Inside the confines of the bones, there was the semi-transparent figure of a man, the very same one as depicted by the largest statue. He was painted only in a shiny silver that was as reflective as a mirror and a deep green that resembled a kelpie's watery, seaweed-like skin. His body was unnaturally long, a human-to-snake transformation interrupted and frozen, and his head wasn't visible, as his neck started at the base of the basilisk's skull. Twin orbs of fire, as white and blinding as the sun, filled the serpent's eye sockets, and though they were the same from every angle, I knew they were staring directly at me.

The statues lining the path had turned into the various creatures they had depicted. They were all hunched over, curling in on themselves with the pain of their enslavement. Chains, a dull and dark gray metal, tightly wound around each one and anchored them to the floor. Their eyes, each and every set of them, were two white wisps of smoke, exactly like the ones trapped in jewels previously. Their attention, I could somehow tell, was not focused on either plane of existence I had experienced, instead staring off to a deeper layer.

Boy-Voldemort no longer looked like the spirit of a deceased Hogwarts student. Rather, he was much similar to an inferius, rotting skin and muscle hanging unto bone by a thread. Half of his head was pure, bleached white bone, with the rest in various stages of decay. There was a thin, insidious line pulsing in black that connected him to what was, presumably, Weasley. She was only a small, sickly yellow pile of glass-like sand that, with each pulse, slowly decreased in size. As she disappeared bit by bit, boy-Voldemort's decay regressed in the same moment. At this rate, he would soon be whole again.

That was not acceptable.

Turning back to the basilisk, I pondered on how to break free on its hold. Then, as if it had heard my thoughts, the serpent's jaw opened wide and headed toward me, ready to tear as its sun-eyes burned brighter. In that instant, a highly compelling need arose in me, though it was unclear as to what exactly it urged me to do. Acting on instinct, I opened my own mouth and in one mighty inhale, sucked in as much air as I was able to. The basilisk froze mid-motion, and I knew I was taking in more than just air. I was consuming its very _soul_.

There came a long, terrible wail as nature was defiled and sullied as part of it was torn forcefully from the whole. The fiery orbs turned the black of the dead before disappearing completely, the ghost's spirit leaving in that same second. The skeleton, no longer held together by anything, fell to the ground soundlessly and lifelessly.

I could feel the foreign soul settling within me, easily subdued by the combined one of the beast and myself. It gathered in my chest, and a comfortable warmth spread from there like the heat of a fire after braving the fierce weather of winter.

Released from my bonds, I went over to boy-Voldemort, my stride quick and purposeful. Meanwhile, boy-Voldemort seemed puzzled, looking around with an annoyed expression that looked grotesque on his slowly-rebuilding face. I realized, belatedly, that he couldn't see me for some reason. I left the wondering on why to later, deciding that this was more important.

When I got to the bond between them, I could sense it giving off an aura of maliciousness. It, as I got closer, started to radiate a vicious emotion, like a tiger defending its territory and fully prepared to to do so by any means, and seemed almost sentient. Offended and not intimidated by this _inferior_ thing's challenge, I grasped it with the speed of a striking viper. It was surprisingly materialistic in my hand, squirming and thrashing like a live snake caught in the talons of a hawk.

I tightened my grip and clasped another section with my other hand. Then, I pulled strongly in opposite directions. When an ear-piercing screech, the bond ripped apart like twine, tightly packed threads unwinding and parting frayed. The broken ends writhed briefly before evaporating into a black mist that swirled into one mass that was absorbed by Weasley's glass-sand form.

Boy-Voldemort stumbled forward two steps, hand outreached toward life and an unseen savior. As he did so, his body started to reverse into decay at a rapid rate. Skin and muscle fell off and turned to ash upon hitting the floor, soon leaving only bones. His skeleton, frozen in that position, rattled as the bones vibrated. They then exploded outward in a cloud of dust and tiny shards. The shards that came my way passed through me without any pain or harm.

With one last view of the glass-sand rebuilding into a humanoid form, this alternate world faded from sight. When I next opened my eyes, I was once again –

_back to the reality that concealed the true selves of all those living_

– in the mortals' realm. I was no longer in the shape of the beast and felt a faint pang of sorrow in my heart with the separation of our souls.

_And yet, the beast moved just beneath its skin bindings, closer than ever and remaining that way. The thin soul-thread had grown in size and strength, the connection deepening even more._

When I surveyed the Chamber, I found that boy-Voldemort had vanished, leaving no trace of his half-existence. The basilisk lay limp and unmoving on the floor, dead but without a –

_journey to whatever afterlife had awaited it, the cycle of rebirth altered_

– single mark on it to suggest the cause of death. The only thing different from its living appearance was the pair of eyes. The golden orbs no longer existed in their sockets, looking like they had been neatly plucked out. Their absence left two gaping holes and cords of muscle and nerve hanging out, all cleanly cut.

Turning my attention to Weasley, I saw she was alive, if just barely, and breathing shallowly and raggedly. The hunger for human flesh hit with the force of a tsunami, enveloping me in its depths. I imagined the addicting taste and licking my lips, walked over.

I definitely deserved a reward for all of this.

X

**June 17, 1353**

The whole of the Great Hall was in black and Hogwarts in mourning. It was supper on the last day of that school year, and a mass funeral for the year's victims was being held.

_It was a gathering of people unaffected by these deaths. They would continue on in life, uncaring of what had happened. If it didn't concern them personally, tragedy was beneath notice._

The food had not yet arrived, as we awaited Dumbledore's speech on –

_Death's icy presence here, indiscriminate and without mercy_

– all that had happened. Finally, the headmaster stood, commanding instant silence from those few still quietly whispering. He wore a solemn look with sorrow and weariness in the aged lines of his face. He looked every bit the age he was, perhaps even more in that world-weary, jaded way.

"Students of Hogwarts, fellow wizards and witches... friends," he started off, slowly enunciating each word to convey all the meaning, the entirety of this raw emotion. He briefly closed his eyes in what seemed like regret, avoiding the sight of some figment of memory. In opening them, he seemed to accept –

_his role as Atlas, cursed to carry the world with tired arms but unfailing strength_

– some heavy burden, and a gusty sigh escaped him. He continued, voice strong, "We gather in this place today, and in our hearts with shared sentiments, to remember and honor our losses."

The powerful wizard looked over the collection of students, gaze sweeping over each one in seconds but piercing in their ancient knowledge. This seriousness was different than the norm and served to drive home his point. All eyes, all of the Houses looked at Dumbledore in rapt attention, whether they were so inclined or not. Even I watched him –

_through dual eyes, half beast and all calculation_

– intently.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "the word loss can mean many things. Yes, we are here for the passing of nine students, each that had different things to offer to the Earthly Realm and, eventually, the Spirits. Each of them is a tragedy by themselves, and we all miss them. But, it is also a loss of another sort, for as their bodies are turned to earth, each of their souls departs to one of the other Realms.

"With loss also comes _hope_. Just as it is at the bottom of a jar filled with disease, death, and despair, hope remains true at the end of all of these. It is a guiding force capable of any feat. Hope, you see, is the base of dreams and ambition and makes them reality. It is, above all, what we must not cling to.

"As we feel the loss of something physical, parts of them remain, forever in the heart and mind. Memories are things to be cherished, held onto as long as possible. With memories, the dead live on.

"We must also remember that their bodies contained a _soul_, the essence of _life_. The souls of the dead pass on to the other Realms and before they become a new life, the highest forms of peace and bliss are experienced. In their final moments, our brethren are happy at a level that cannot be described with words.

"Let hope, everyone, be what you hold on to, despite what may seem like the end, for death is only the beginning."

After the headmaster's speech, there was an awed silence as this knowledge and inspiration sunk in, reaching to their souls to make them see the sense in his speech.

However, a select few had a different reaction. Those that had known the first seven to die (Malfoy excluded) were quiet as Dumbledore's words washed over them without any true understanding. They stared at visions only viewable by them, eyes and faces blank. Black shadows curved under their eyes, the products of many sleepless nights spent with the company of sorrow and thoughts of what if's. These still circled painfully in their minds during the day, and their bodies, in response, wasted away, as sustenance became an afterthought.

Those around them, friend or not, kept their distance.

_They, whom were needed most in this moment, avoided the problem, choosing to deny that there was anything wrong. Ignorance, after all, created a world where there was nothing to worry about, no one that needed help. It was a false creation built with the bricks of human cruelty._

Those staring off didn't seem to notice this neglect, or more likely, they were resigned to the suffering they endured. It was a tragic sight yet not wholly unexpected of humanity.

The remaining Weasleys, excluding Ron, fell into this category, but at least, they had each other, as evidenced by the lot of them huddling together tightly. In this storm of grief, each was an anchor for the others, tying them to reality lest they be lost. It was yet to be seen if the rope from anchor to struggling passenger would stay unbroken.

Ron, sitting alone at the end of the Slytherin table, held –

_an iron will, a determination which could not be broken by any mortal tool_

– something else within him. It was evident in his stony face, blue eyes filled with an iceberg – slow to gain speed but unstoppable in its journey until the whole of it was exhausted. A snarl twisted his lips, but it was something he was unaware of. He radiated his intention to kill, a mindless and chaotic rage barely held in check. Though, it was not a trapped emotion. Rather, Ron was awaiting the perfect moment to unleash its mighty wrath.

Dumbledore soon reached the end of all that had to be said, and the food finally appeared. In the mouths of those select few, it tasted of ash.

X

END of Year of the Beast

_NOTES:_

"**...a muttered spell to Epona."**: In Gallo-Roman mythology, she was a goddess that protected horses, donkeys, and mules. Since a unicorn is basically a horse with a horn, I thought this fit well.

"**...nature of a ti****āngoŭ, war in every step and thunder its breath..."**: This is a mythological creature from China. Supposedly, it makes a sound like thunder and brings war to everywhere it goes. Generally, it resembles a dog. And, somehow, a... comet? Don't really know how _that_ works.

**Typhon**: In Greek mythology, Typhon was the monster to end all monsters and, rightly so, called "the Father of All Monsters." He had dragon heads (and a _lot_ of them), though some people depicted him as having a human one. From the waist down, he had a snake tail, and his fingers were made of snakes also. He had fiery eyes and many, many wings.

"**...strength of a hyena..."**: Hyenas, especially the striped and spotted variations, have a great amount of biting power. They can kill a dog in a single bite to the neck. According to the vet at my nearby zoo, the strength of a hyena's jaws is more powerful than a tiger's. I think he said something about them having the most biting power of all land mammals, but don't quote me on that.

"**Knockturn's vast maze..."**: I'm not exactly sure how J. K. Rowling depicts Knockturn Alley in relation to its size and shape (one alley, many, etc). In the movies, though, I think it was just one alley. That, however, makes no sense. Seriously, how _would_ all those different shops fit if there was only one straight path? Thus, my Knockturn has many, many alleys branching off from the main one in a confusing labyrinth.

"**...laid eyes upon its deadly beauty – a drakaina."**: Drakainas are from Greek mythology. They are always female and are dragons. Occasionally, they have some human features.

"**...a chimera on rampage..."**: In a general sense, chimeras are a mixture of several different animals all in one body. In Greek mythology, this combination was a goat, lion, and snake. It breathed fire, and a sighting of one foretold of natural disasters and things like that. Sounds like a pretty angry creature to me.

"**...as heated as Vulcan's forge..."**: In Roman mythology, Vulcan was a god of fire and smithery. He made things for the gods and goddesses – weapons, jewelry, armor, and that sort of thing. Naturally, he'd need a forge to make all this crap, and forges, as a general rule, have to be hot in order to be of any use.

"**...power of Thor's hammer, laced with lightning..."**: In Norse mythology, Thor was the god of thunder, lightning, storms, strength, and a whole bunch of other stuff. He wielded a hammer, which was called Mjölnir, that held a great power. I'd say he's a pretty cool guy.

"**...Charon reached out a thin, rotting hand in demand for payment to cross Styx, one last trip through a river of departed souls..."**: In Greek mythology, Charon is the person to go to if you want to cross the river of Styx. Styx, along with another river – Acheron, apparently – go from where the newly dead reside to the underworld. He carries the dead in a ferry, but only if they have a coin. So the deceased had said coin, they were often buried with one in their mouth.

"**...like a prophecy from the veiled Skuld, a prediction that bound even the mightiest of gods..."**: In Norse mythology, Skuld is the Norn (a trio of women who decide what destiny everyone will have, man or deity) that sees the future. If I remember correctly, one of the books I had on Norse mythology said that when the Norns make up their minds about someone's fate, it's sealed for all eternity. Even the gods and goddesses had to bow down to these inevitable happenings.

"**...leviathan, eyes bright and gleaming with the light of a thousand dying suns, peering out from the depths of her self, fins breaking the stormy waves teasingly, threateningly..."**: From Hebrew (or Judaic; I'm not sure) mythology, there comes the leviathan. It's a giant sea serpent in most versions, though some paint it as a fish or dragon. All three have the possibility of having fins, so I thought this was an accurate portrayal. Basically, it's the monster under the bed... but in the water. Its eyes shine brightly, as does its body to a lesser extent.

"**...mighty Snake King, whose paralyzing gaze held no rival and whose venom had no first."**: This one, quite obviously, is the basilisk. It's from European descent (mythology-wise, of course) and is called the "king of serpents" because it can insti-kill with a single look. It also has a very potent venom.

"**...banshee's wail, the signal of death to come..."**: The banshee is a female figure from Irish mythology. She wails when someone dies or is close to doing so. Over time, the myth developed to her actually foretelling death.

"**...chance to bathe in Tsukiyomi's rays..."**: In Japanese mythology, Tsukiyomi is the god of the moon.

**The "Harry x Draco" scene (in which Draco dies)**: Let me let you, this was definitely _not_ planned. At all. But, as all writers know, the pen takes you by the collar and _tells_ you where to go. I also didn't intend for anything involving Harry and Draco even getting anywhere near each other in a sexual situation. Quite frankly, Draco Malfoy isn't exactly one of my favorite characters (cannon or not). Anyway, just so you know (and don't get little _ideas_ in your head), Harry was **not** attracted to Draco. Rather, he was aroused by a combination of "sexual awakening" and the food on the menu. More so the food. So, I like to think of this scene as Harry x Random Victim, instead. Best pairing ever, guys.

"**Great snake, your shadowy coils do bind the world. Let the scales of Midgard reach down to this mortal. Biting your tail, there is no escape."**: This a spell to the Midgard Serpent (also called Jörmungandr), a creature in Norse mythology. The Serpent wraps around Midgard, one of nine worlds and the one where humans live. It covers the earth by curling into a circle and biting its tail. This position, when taken by a snake or dragon, is called an ouroboros, representing the cycle of life (death, rebirth, and all that) and, consequently, eternity.

"**...harpy, speedily chasing down her prey..."**: Harpies are half-bird and half-human women from Greek mythology. They're known for stealing and being able to track down people/food. I wanted to put some really fast creature here, but the harpy was all I could find.

"**The life of Spirits breathes Wind! The storm of their anger strikes!"**: This one's just another general spell, this time for Wind. It's really nothing special.

"**...pathetic lot watching young Titans battle..."**: In Greek mythology, the Titans were powerful deities. They reigned for a while until, later on, a younger group of deities (the Olympians) took over (thus the "young" part).

"**...mere ants next to manticores..."**: In Persian mythology, manticores are creatures with the body of a lion, head of a human (with sharp, pointy teeth), and the tail of a snake or dragon. It gained the title "man-eater" because of its appetite for humans. Originally, they were called something else by the Persians until the ignorant foreigners changed it to "manticore." Obviously, ants, the small things they are, cannot compare to manticores, for they are too awesome to be real.

"**Spirits' Earthly element, show your rolling waves!"**: Just another general spell, this time for Earth (duh). It creates a very mild earthquake.

"**Cold winds of the North do turn snow. The Giantess does brave this cruel blizzard. She ****harnesses the winter! Ride, icy shard-daggers!"**: This spell is to a giantess (female giant) from Norse mythology. I didn't really specify which one because there are many and, quite frankly, I don't want to look for hours to try to figure out which one would be best. Hrímthurs, the race from which this random giantess would come, are beings made of ice (and are, obviously, giants). They live in Niflheim, a land of eternal snow, winter, and everything cold.

"**...all the intent of Arawn's hounds, tracking down the scent of their target..."**: In Welsh mytholgy, Arawn was the king of their version of the underworld, Annwn. His hounds, called the Cŵn Annwn, tracked down souls and brought them to him. Apparently, this bit of mythology was adapted (read: vilified) by Christians later on.

"**Chains of the storm, descend! Your electric shackles are forged in the Earthly Realm!"**: This a general spell, but to Lightning this time, the combination of Fire and Wind. It creates, as you have read, chains of lightning. They can be used in _any_ way your little heart desires once you make them.

"**...path to the City of Gold..."**: The City of Gold, which sometimes people add the word 'lost' to the front, is a reference to El Dorado. Some explorers (read: idiot foreigners) have tried to search for it – eternal wealth and all that. None of them found it, of course. I'm sure all of you have heard of this at some point or another.

"**...reborn phoenix as well, to rise from ashes in true immortality..."**: The phoenix, which is from several mythologies (not just Greek), is a bird that lives for a _long_ time then bursts into flame. After that, it's reborn, though some say it dies and a new phoenix is born. Either way, they won't become an endangered species any time soon (if they actually existed, that is).

"**...grand hall of Odin..."**: Odin is an important god from Norse mythology, though Odin is only one of his bazillion names. Seriously, this guy has way too many – how does he keep track of them all? He has several different residences associated with him. One of which is Valhalla, a hall in Asgard, where all the dead people go to celebrate and generally have a good party. Dying in battle brings great honor to your family, too.

"**The Binder of Fate intertwines her threads. She controls the grand tapestry of existence with resolute hands. So weave the destiny of this mortal."**: This is the incantation for what cannon calls the Imperius Curse. The 'Binder of Fate' could refer to any mythology's fate-maker(s). Most times, I've found, they're female. I figured that if the Imperius Curse controls people, then I should make a reference to fate/destiny, which also controls people. Of course, like the Imperius Curse, this would be a temporary thing.

**Harry's transformation**: In case I don't get to it later, Harry transformed into his animagus form (aka "the beast"), which is a wendigo. A wendigo, traditionally, is a spirit that possesses people and turns them into man-eaters (in a cannibalistic sense). Thus, it has no real form. I was free to make up whatever the hell I wanted. So no complaining.

**The "alternate world" Harry enters in the Chamber of Secrets**: I know it seems _really_ weird right now, but it'll get better. It does have a specific name that will be revealed later (probably in the fifth chapter). Basically, it shows the 'true nature' of people represented in alternate images. The ability to enter it is one Harry will always have (and only him) and a quite useful one at that. However, it comes with a price, as he has unleashed something by going there. Buahahaha...

"**...the reverse of Pandora's predicament, all the sins of the world going back to whence they came."**: Pandora, as I'm sure you've all heard of, is a woman from Greek mythology. She was given a box/ jar (whichever translation you choose to believe in) which contained, unbeknownst to her, all the evils of the world. She, though she specifically was told not to, opened it and released all these. She tried to stop it, but didn't succeed, only to find that at the bottom was hope.

"**...deep green that resembled a Kelpie's watery, seaweed-like skin."**: In Celtic mythology, a kelpie is a horse that lives in water, luring in people (especially ignorant children) to drown them. Then eat them. Some versions say its hide is white, others black, and other various colors. It makes more sense for the thing to have a green and/or blue hide. You can't hide _anything_ in the water with _white_.

"**...much similar to an inferius..."**: An inferius (plural: inferi) is a creature solely belonging to Harry Potter cannon. TBL _actually_ using cannon – amazing, I know, right? It's the zombie of the HPverse and doesn't like fire very much. However, it isn't repelled by holy water, magic bullets, and silly things like that.

"**...his role as Atlas, cursed to carry the world with tired arms but unfailing strength..."**: In Greek mythology, Atlas was that guy who had to hold the world on his back. In this myth, Zeus cursed him to stand on Gaia (the earth) and hold up the sky as punishment for being on the losing side (harsh, dude). If you had to carry all that, you'd probably be pretty tried, too. Unless you lift, bro.

**TBL**: Ugh. O.O So. Many. Words. Hope you liked it, guys. See y'all in another few months! XD

**The few. The proud. The strong. The reviewers. Be a reviewer today. Help your writer.**

_5/21/2012_


	5. Fragments of Yesterday II

Scourge – Fragments of Yesterday II

**TBL**: Hey, readers. Aren't you happy? I mean, I got this one out in under the two month mark! I'd do a dance, but that's not my thing...

**Another warning this time, though one that's, in my opinion, hardly warranted: there's a brief bit of slash in this chapter. Really, it's only a paragraph – literally – so there's no reason to be upset.**

You're trapped in here with nothing but a gun and a single bullet. Somethin's stalkin' ya from the shadows, and there's only one chance. Better make it count.

**Disclaimer**: I, Tainted Blood Lust, do not own the Harry Potter franchise. I also do not own the Naruto franchise. I make no money in writing this.

Also, the definition for 'scourge' is directly from Wikipedia's sister dictionary/thesaurus website. Therefore, it is not mine.

The reference for Pan Gu came from , and the one for the kissar came from . The lynx symbolism came from .com. All other reference information came from .

Enjoy.

X

SCOURGE

(_n._) a persistent pest, illness, or source of trouble; cause of suffering to people

X

**August 26, 1352**

Master – Lucius Malfoy to many, but a name he didn't dare speak – was in the main study room with the grand door to it locked. Dobby, as a house elf, had magical powers most wizards could only dream of and so had overcome the wards Master had set up to watch him from the shadows. Of course, with this, bitter thoughts of his slavery and that of many generations before him came to the house elf. They, his kind, were thought by those _wizards_ as being mindless things, less than dirt and born to serve. But, this was so very far from the truth. Though bound to these puny, distorted bodies and shackled to servitude, they had not always been this way. Aeons ago, their kind had been forced into this life by the magic of a powerful being – one man, god, and demon all at once. It, however, could not take away all of what made them unique. Among few others remained the gift of _memory_. As the years passed, the lives of past house elves were remembered by the later generations, a genetic memory of sorts. And so, Dobby understood; he knew of their fall from grace and once mighty race, and, most importantly, he knew the curse would one day be broken by their savior. It was a destined thing, unable to be stopped by anyone. Dobby looked forward, as did all house elves, to this day.

Master had a glass of a potent, sweet-smelling wine, but it was only absently held, without the intention of being drunk. What held his attention, though, was the plain, thin black book sitting on the table before him. It was out of place, this simple and _ordinary_ book, and so unlike anything else Master had. And yet, he was utterly fascinated with it.

Dobby understood _exactly_ why this interested him so. Unbeknownst to anyone but themselves, house elves could see things none else could. Around the book, there was an aura, black as scorched brimstone and _aware_. It was like the Morning Star, trapped in darkness and ever-awaiting the chance to break loose, to rain down fire across the lands. This entity was an evil that could not be given any other title. The house elf could not discern exactly _what_ use it was for, but undoubtedly, that purpose wasn't for anything good. Perhaps, he theorized, the book was an instrument of the Dark Lord's. It was a hypothesis that certainly fit, as the Dark Lord controlled Master like a favored puppet, a creation completely malleable to its creator's whims and without any sort of will of its own.

"Soon," Master whispered passionately, and his was the voice of a zealot, wholly devoted, body and soul, to his cause. He had the mentality of one, treading the drop between the shallow and deeps ends of insanity. In him, justice was a black and white thing, where one was either for or against the Higher Plan, and the Higher Plan, a vague but glorious vision, was a _better_ world fated to be. A world where magic was might and those muggles, those inferior _cretins_, were naught but slaves, their present rise halted and lost in memory and history. Master was a puppet who, even in his knowledge of servitude, savored his role like a man given water in the middle of a desert, who gave up control without regret. It disgusted Dobby to the core. Slavery was not a choice – but accepting it was.

Master, thinking he was in the company of no one, let out a hiccup of a laugh. His pale eyes, trained solely on the book, were wide and fanatical, holding a reverence usually reserved for the faithful gazing upon their deity materialized at long last. His hiccup-laughs soon evolved into cackling, unhinged sounds, the sort of giggle of a crazed man would make but lined with the maliciousness of a hyena's call as it stalked a young, helpless gazelle. A glint that already lay in his eyes, that of an imagined plan which boded nothing good, only increased in fervor.

"_Yes_," he hissed out like one in the throes of ecstasy, eyes almost closed but unable to completely cut out his view of the book. Another giggle escaped him, short and hysterical. There was a moment of silence before he broke it, shouting out, "Yes! **YES!**"

Dobby's jump went unnoticed as he was startled by the sudden, loud declaration. However, he was not the least bit surprised. Master's mind had been deteriorating for years, like the slow decomposition of a corpse. Though he kept it to himself and tightly locked up the insanity near others, Master could not keep this from Dobby. The house elf could have sensed it in him even if he hadn't been keeping an eye on the wizard. Master's journey to nothingness was a falling line of dominoes. To try and stop this chain reaction would only worsen the damage. Not that Dobby would try to.

"He," Master got out between laughs,"will... will... he will..."

They stopped for a brief moment as a wide grin split Master's face in a most disturbing manner. Then, "COME **ALIVE** AGAIN!"

The house elf felt a cold shiver run its course down his spine. Surely, he could not mean...? But, Dobby couldn't live in denial, couldn't ignore his thoughts screaming out. Master meant to... he meant to _bring back __**the Dark Lord**_. Even just acknowledging this in his own mind, _not aloud_, brought about the stirrings of a powerful panic in the face of the very real possibility of **his** return. His small heart beat a hasty rhythm as a dull roar pervaded his hearing until the words of Master came as if he were underwater.

However, it was not enough to block out the man's muttered plans recited only to himself. Dobby didn't hear the whole of it, but one name in particular jumped out at him. Harry Potter.

That taste of panic grew exponentially after that. Harry Potter – the only one to defeat _the Dark Lord_. Dobby could **not** allow Potter to be taken out of the picture, could not allow the only one capable of doing that again to die. For, the house elf felt it in his bones that **he** would indeed return one day. Potter had to be warned at all costs. The boy wouldn't go back to Hogwarts, the house elf decided. It was the only way.

Death was the only thing that could stop Dobby now.

X

**October 28, 1352**

Severus Snape sneered in his usual manner at the class before him and once again wondered just _why_ he had decided to take on this job. Oh yes, _that_ was the reason why – Dumbledore and his merry band of hypocrites. In the safety of his own mind, Severus played out several scenarios of the old wizard's brutal death. Each was intensely satisfying.

Quite obviously, the Potions Master was in a horrible mood.

The group of second years – a combination of Gryffindors and Slytherins, the worst pairing of Houses to ever exist – all paid only half of their attention to him. After only five minutes into the class. Frankly, Severus could imagine that teaching _chickens_ would be better than this. Expression further souring with this (not unusual) thought, he finally spoke, "Today, we will be making the first stage of the Drought of Self Consumption. It's the simplest stage, as I don't expect you cretins to have much in the way of brains. Hopefully, though, you'll at least get _something_ right."

The faces staring at him were dreadfully confused. Like a simple-minded sheep inside of a butcher shop, gazing upon its dead fellows. Their professor sighed heavily in a put-upon way, "It's commonly referred to as the 'Man-Eater Potion,' you imbeciles."

There were then (finally) dawning looks of comprehension on their faces. Well, most of them, at any rate. Severus hated their incompetence but knew that, alas, it was more likely for the Earthly Realm to suddenly disappear than for every single student of his to understand even a simple concept. As his condescending gaze roamed over the second years, it eventually came upon Harry Potter. He ceased this to stare solely at Potter, body frozen and mind analyzing what his eyes took in without any real belief in it. The boy met his stare easily, his piercing green eyes wild yet filled with a cold, inhuman calculation. It was certainly a contradiction but the only accurate description available.

Eyes were said to be the windows to the soul, and in Potter's innermost being, he saw that unnatural monster nesting in the shadows, twining around Potter with cold, slick scales. Severus saw it every time he dared lock gazes with the boy. However, instead of whispering sins to him from afar, the monster shared Potter's green stare, one and the same with him. They were not dual personalities but one soul in two bodies.

It terrified Severus like none other.

It was, in a way, Tom Riddle – the Dark Lord Voldemort, or, to many, You-Know-Who, whichever one preferred – all over again with His grand ideals, charisma, and ability to suck even the most innocent of souls into the abyss He inhabited and alone ruled. Severus could see the chain-shawl of Destiny heavy around Potter's shoulders, leading him by the neck to greatness, just as the Dark Lord's had. His Lord had also had a certain cruelty that went beyond human to Him, freely shining in those distinctive, sanguine eyes.

But despite all these similarities, Severus could tell that while the Dark Lord had already reached the end of His potential, Potter's own climb to his limit had not yet ended and was unlikely to soon. The boy, if given an opportunity, would surpass Him as one predator eventually outlasted its competitor to become apex. The monster behind his Lord's eyes did not mirror Potter's own, for the boy's was _more_ – more powerful, more engulfed in the blackness of evil, more of everything that went into the definition of a monster.

And this was the reason why Severus Snape, one of the Dark Lord Voldemort's best commanders, trembled so in the thorny grasp of Potter's cruel and ever-hungering gaze.

In a brief moment of insanity, he wondered why blood was not that unnatural shade of green. Surely, it would make more sense for the essence of physical life to match the soul of this man-god-demon? Perhaps, he pondered, the substance _was_ actually green. People, ignorant creatures they were, simply did not _see_ it, refused to believe the truth in front of their eyes. He had always, before meeting Potter, thought that red was the rightful color, to mirror the Dark Lord's gaze. After all, He was the greatest wizard to ever bless their kind's existence. But, he realized, Potter transcended this to easily surpass the Dark Lord – or, at least, he would in some years' time. So therefore, this ignored green was proof that the world's blood was the boy's to take, as it was rightfully his, he reasoned. It all made perfect sense to the Potions Master at the time, a type of logic only the insane could understand.

One of the students coughed (lightly, as to not gain punishment from the professor for 'disrupting the class'), and Severus was broken out of his trance, escaping the thoughts he preferred to bury. The staring match hadn't lasted more than a minute or two, but it had felt like hours, torturous hours of unearthing unwanted truths to have them shoved down his throat. He realized he had a light coat of sweat upon his skin and that, out of sight, his hands were shaking. He saw Potter inhale deeply, something few noticed and only Severus knew the reason for, and knew that, by the lazy, satisfied grin curling Potter's lips, the boy could somehow smell the fear wafting from the professor like a heavy perfume. To take his mind off of this disturbing concept, he continued to start that day's lesson.

"The instructions for this potion," he said then flicked his wand toward the stone wall behind him in a gesture that seemed nonchalant, "will be up on the wall."

Indeed, they did appear in Severus' spidery scrawl, colored white as to be easily seen on the wall blackened from the large amounts of potion fumes from whenever a student (that Gryffindor, Neville Longbottom, as the case for second years went this time) made a gross mistake in preparing the lesson's designated potion. It was a readable script, if barely. Thus, Severus did not concern himself with the inability of some students to decipher it. Besides, if they were _prepared_, they would have the necessary book.

He added in his usual acidic tone, "It is also on page thirty-four of your book. I cannot help you if you are incapable of finding exactly _where_ it is. Those with at least half a brain should be able to manage, so I expect those of you with less to grow some more."

As appalling (and frankly, unexpected) as it was, that _had_ happened one or two times during his career. He had refused to correct the sheer _idiocy_ it took to follow the steps for a random potion on another page when they didn't know which symbols represented sixty-seven. It was sink or swim in life, and he was not going to prolong their journey to an inevitable drowning. Spirits knew this Realm was better off without those sort procreating. Severus was obviously a firm believer in low intelligence being passed on from generation to generation, as he had not seen much to contradict this over the years. Truly, magickind produced some incredibly _stupid_ offspring.

"First, you will..." the professor began to explain as a supplement to the lesson. When he had first started teaching, he had not done this, leaving the class to flounder on their own without any sort of help. They could rely on the book, he had reasoned without much thought to it. However, after this, Dumbledore had threatened him (in his own, half-insane little way) to do a a better job teaching them or forget he had ever took up this task in the first place. Consequently, this meant that Severus would take on a different, non-teaching job within Hogwarts, as the Headmaster needed the Potions Master in his reach, and as there were so few available jobs fitting this description, he would most likely become the school's caretaker. And what a lowly, disgusting role _that_ was.

So, starting with his third year of being the Potions professor, he began to talk to the students about what they were about to make, pounding into their heads the basics of potion-making and other bits of knowledge they needed to learn. Immediately, he had noticed a huge difference in the quality of their work, as well as their scores on the end-of-the-year tests. Satisfied with this, Severus had not changed a single thing in his method once since beginning it.

After five or so minutes of explaining and answering the occasional question, he let the students begin working on the assignment. The base that they had to prepare for this potion consisted of essence of hemlock and had to be heated then simmered with a low flame. This, they had no problems with (which was a relief). It was at the next step that something went wrong – so, so _very_ wrong.

The first actual ingredient to be added was the raw meat of a human – organ, muscle, or anything else, as it really didn't matter. Technically, it was still a legal thing to use in potion-making, though it inevitably made the students queasy and unwilling. (Also, the British Ministry of Magic was on the fence on this issue, as the sources had a dubious nature where consent was concerned. Severus suspected it would soon be outlawed, adding Britain to the long list of magical governments that banned using parts taken from a human in any kind of magic, potions or otherwise.) As a solution to this, the professor told them every year without fail that the book's instructions had a mistake in them, that it was actually animal parts they were using. He often heard them whispering in the halls after this particular lesson: why would a potion they made in _Hogwarts_ involve such an ingredient that toed the line between the acceptance and rejection of society? Severus let them remain blinded by their innocence. Once in the world outside of Hogwarts, they would shed this and see things in a different light, so he need not interfere.

Severus had to hand out this ingredient to each personally, as too many times before had a student wasted the stock in their clumsiness brought about by squeamishness. He gave them muscle for the most part, as that was a pretty much universal animal (or human) section and thus difficult to distinguish the origin of. The last student he went to, way in the back corner and blending in with the shadows, was Potter. His eyes had been, as Severus had observed out of the corner of his vision, a bit wide and darkened with anticipation and a twisted delight. By the time he stood directly in front of the boy's table, Potter's eyes were almost black and bordered on demonic. A long tongue reached out to lick lips curled into a sinister grin in one slow motion, and his gaze was attached solely to the scrap of meat in the professor's grasp. He inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring like a wolf catching the scent of prey, and Potter's eyes became hooded.

Severus went to take a small step back, but inexplicably, unexpectedly found himself moving forward, instead. Invisible strings tugged at him, pulling him further toward the boy, as if he were a mere marionette. The Potion Master's movements were smooth but felt wooden to him, and no matter how hard he struggled, he was still at the student's mercy. Not a single person glanced over as they diligently worked on their potions, and Severus for once cursed the mindset he had instilled in them.

It felt like hours, those few seconds it took for Potter to lure him around the table. As soon as he was a centimeter away from his captor's form, the boy plucked the meat out of his hand like a striking viper and quickly threw it into his mouth. The professor stood there, frozen even as Potter's hold on him vanished, to watch him unhurriedly chew the piece of _human flesh_. A few drops of blood escaped his mouth, running down his chin grotesquely, and Potter swiped his finger to collect them. He extended the appendage, as if to taunt Severus, to tell him that the boy could not possibly be stopped in his search to quench this horrible, horrible thirst, and lapped up the blood on it. It was almost a seductive action, yet the display was forever tainted by the knowledge of exactly what Potter had eaten. He finally swallowed it then gave Severus what was not so much a grin as a savage baring of teeth, and the blood now painted them a faint red. His stomach churned in disgust and fear.

_See?_ the smile seemed to say. _This is what can happen – happen to __**you**__._

"Would you happen to have some more?" Potter whispered with the voice of a kelpie, calling sweetly from deep, black waters of death to ensnare all those listening in his net. Dragging his victims to their demises without ever a complaint from them, he would devour the masses, leaving them entranced even as their flesh was stripped from the bone. He chuckled lowly, a deep sound like his usual but _different_, and the Potions Master realized what made it so – that vile, shadowy monster. It was sharing Potter's voice now, exerting its control to silently explain to Severus, torment him with the knowledge that this connection went far deeper than he had estimated, that the boy was as much Harry Potter as he was that unnatural being inside.

The last few bits of human flesh in the charmed pouch on Severus' belt floated out of it to land in front of Potter with soft plops. He immediately grabbed one to eat that one too, eyes locked with the Potions Master's the whole time. When he finished it, he said with an air of mocking, "That was ever so nice of you. Thank you."

Severus' body shuddered violently, and he abruptly jerked back, finally realizing he alone controlled his own body once more. Heart beating wildly and sweat covering him, he wasted no time making his way back to his desk at the front. He shakily sat in his chair with little grace, eyes staring straight ahead at nothing as his thoughts consumed him.

Near the end of the class, the professor eventually calmed himself down as much as one could in such a situation. The students, one by one, came up to hand in their finished product, and he paid them as much attention as he could, which amounted to little. He hollowly dismissed them, and as they all exited, Potter included, he felt only a soul-deep relief like he had never experienced before. In the brief respite between classes, he tried to further settle himself. It was a futile effort.

And, as the next batch of students came in to begin learning, it, this stunning revelation, came to him, a truth that had been there all along but had remained out of sight until now. It hit him with a force that seemed as if it were real and physical. He remembered reading of it once long ago as a young man searching for a way to greatness, foolishly blinded by dreams and visions of being the Dark Lord's equal, and the description fit Potter perfectly, so wholly that it could not be anything else.

_Wendigo_.

X

**October 31, 1352**

"Mudbloods, beware!" a young yet (barely) masculine voice shouted out, the source out of sight but definitely near. "It's coming for you, filthy mongrels!"

Even before Minerva McGonagall turned the corner, she knew it was that annoying brat of a Malfoy. Though she did not teach him, Minerva knew him well enough. Malfoy was the worst of this year's second years through and through. Of all the Houses. He was a nuisance, thinking himself more powerful than the reality of it was. Every time she caught sight of the boy, the Fire Arts professor could easily picture a peacock in his place; it certainly fit perfectly well. Really, what _had_ Lucius Malfoy been teaching his son all these years?

In coming across Malfoy once more as she rounded the corner, Minerva expected to see the boy, his cronies, and a lone victim. (Unfair odds for sure, but that was the way Malfoy handled things.) She was surprised to see a good sized crowd huddled in a semicircle around Malfoy, who was pointing his finger at the muggleborns of the group with a wide grin. He looked malicious and mean-spirited, sure, but there was a distinct lack of intimidation, making him seem all the more a twelve year old. A few muggleborns shrunk back a bit, but there was little fear in them. Malfoy's attempt to induce terror was, simply put, quite pathetic.

The only other person the crowd gathered around besides Malfoy was George Weasley, one of Minerva's own. While the blond failure spouted out his ineffective 'threats,' Weasley stood there wide-eyed and pale like a frightened rabbit. His eyes darted to and fro in obvious panic but never really absorbed what they saw. He was jittery and jumped every time Malfoy's volume passed a certain line.

Minerva, upon seeing the writing on the section of wall behind Weasley, could fully see the reason for this behavior. The red letters had the possibility of being something else, but the second she saw them, the professor knew _exactly_ what they were painted with – _blood_. They were so eerily, so horribly familiar, invoking a great, weighty dread within her. Her mind screamed to her that _he_ was long dead, that it couldn't possibly be _his_ work. But, sure as the sun rose every morning, undeniable proof sat in front of her and unburied memories Minerva had, over the years, slowly forgot. Oh, how they taunted her now.

_It was an uneasy supper in the Great Hall, for sure. Minerva, now a seventh year, felt this more keenly than the less experienced, lower years. There was only silence beyond the usual sounds of eating and utensils against plates and bowls. Everyone, including the professors, was rattled, shaken in the wake of having their own mortality thrown in their faces. Their eyes had the beginnings of being haunted in them, that bias against hope slowly forming. She also felt this in herself but could not stop its progression. After October's last day, happiness had become a precious commodity in Hogwarts. Genuine happiness even more so._

_On the thirty-first, the first victim – and the start of this horror – had been found. It had been a first year Hufflepuff, sweet and innocent even in death. She had been spotted in an abandoned classroom by an unlucky student that day, her body already defiled by a week's worth of decay and rot. The school caretaker still wasn't able to completely get rid of the stench after two months._

_The girl had died in a relatively painless and quick manner. The rumors on exactly how varied, but this fact was true in all of them. It was a minor comfort at best._

_What made the students uneasy and disturbed was that the Hufflepuff girl was certainly not the last. Earlier in the day, the fifth victim, a third year Gryffindor, had been found, this time blatantly placed in a hallway near the Water Arts classroom. The state in which each corpse was in had steadily worsened with each succession. Each left Minerva sickened, but the most current one almost made her physically ill._

_The Gryffindor had been fresh at the time of discovery. Her body was pristine, not a mark on her. In fact, it looked as if she had simply laid down and peacefully died where she sat. Not much later, the information on how she died had gotten out – or, at least, the reasons that had been ruled out. Not a heart attack, not a disease; not a **spell**, even. Everyone was obviously puzzled at this, and what was more was that it bred an even worse fear inside them. If they knew the cause, then they could **defend** against it; without this, the unknown further cornered them into a desperate position._

_The only marred feature on the girl was her eyes. Like every victim after the that first Hufflepuff, they were missing, perhaps plucked out or perhaps not. Perhaps eaten, like a crow pecking at those soft, soulless orbs that were always the first part to be enjoyed. It was impossible to tell what had happened to them beyond their missing status this time, as the eye sockets were burnt to the bone, scorched into ash by some great power. A wide area around them, too, was blackened, a perfect circle radiating from where the pupil would have been. The girl's mouth was open in one last scream rendered silent. Her head was raised to the ceiling, as if crying out to a Spirit in the sky for help and, in her last moments, salvation from this torture._

_Behind her, painted on the wall in dried blood, was a message, as there had been with each and every victim. With every one, it was also a different set of words, but all rhymed and all with the same taunt._

_**The bond that connects –**_

_**can you figure out this?**_

_**A hint to the wary:**_

_**here comes the ferry**_

_**to carry the lifeless**_

_**when gold not of metal collects.**_

_**This lynx, feline of Sight**_

_**foretold the future's path**_

_**and of jackal-headed Seth.**_

_**But there is no flight from Death**_

_**and no escape from wrath**_

_**for those who speak of hope's light.**_

_**The time of six is near;**_

_**who next will meet their fear?**_

_Those neat, fancy words of sanguine mocked them all, laughed at their helplessness with glee. Underneath the lines lay a picture of a lynx, also in blood, as accurate and lifelike as the real creature. It's eyes were as black as the girl's, where the horrid paint was thickly layered, and the two mirrored each other perfectly. The feline, though, had an almost vulpine, silently sinister grin, all sharp, needle-like teeth and malice. Though not animated, it seemed to stare at whomever looked at it, seeing their soul and future just as a real lynx did._

_This time, instead of merely hearing rumors, Minerva had seen the scene, had sensed the lingering presence of Death, colder than all the ice of the Earthly Realm. As she ate her food in small, reluctant movements, she could not control the shaking of her hands and the similar, terrified trembling of her mind. She stared at her meal only, head down, but saw not meat and vegetables but her own, imagined death in the same manner. It was a horrible but unstoppable image._

_Had she only looked forward toward the Slytherin table across from her, Minerva would have seen Tom Riddle, would have seen his secretly smug, satisfied look. She would have seen the perfect face that hid those abyssal eyes – the eyes of a killer._

The Fire Arts professor came back to herself an undetermined amount of time later. Nothing had changed in the meanwhile, Malfoy's propaganda still spewing out of his mouth in that annoying voice of his. Minerva got herself together and quickly strode over to the crowd, calling out for the students to disperse. She tried desperately to ignore the memories trailing at her heels like a particularly vicious dog. It was an effort only half rewarded, the memory-hound ceasing its biting but still lurking closely behind to stalk her every move.

The children didn't obey her, chattering amongst themselves and generally ignoring her. Quite a few, though, looked to Minerva out of the corner of their eye with nervous, wary expressions. It was ingrained into them to follow the orders of a professor, or a superior in general. Some part in them, she knew, rebelled against their choice with desperate pleas, however the bloody message and, most importantly of all, perhaps, the scapegoat to this whole mess remained more interesting by far. Had she been more focused on reality and not holding the memories at bay, Minerva might have been able to settle them, but such was not the case.

When Albus Dumbledore, looking as calm and affable as ever, came around the corner, though, there was an immediate hush. The old wizard's hands were clasped behind his back in a gentle manner, but the lines of his face were harsh with a seriousness covering the horror that shone faintly in his eyes. There was also a certain breed of anger, protective and dark, in the very bottom of the pile, barely detectable but telling in its ability to be seen at all.

The masses parted silently around him as he walked to the focal point of their attention, like earth and sky parting before their creator. He seemed to grow taller, in spirit and in the students' perceptions, as they did so. The Headmaster caught sight of the writing upon the wall once he reached it, and even if he hadn't heard the whispers hauntingly familiar to him, the physical proof destroyed what Minerva realized to be hopeful doubt. The wrinkles deepened as something, fragile and full of longing for the better days, curled up tightly to die in that instinct-fueled defensive position. She wondered if Albus' remaining self, the shell of a man disguising itself as strong, would diffuse into the school and its occupants, further shaping his beloved land.

Done reading, he turned to George Weasley, and the boy froze like a rabbit, his own horror reflecting Albus' but not mirroring it in exact shape. Nearby, Malfoy grinned with delight and looked ready to make some caustic, prejudiced comment. He took an unusual amount of pleasure out of this, but it was unsurprising, considering the age old Weasley-Malfoy feud that could be quite vicious at times. Even that, though, could not continue in the face of Albus' stern look. It was not a glare but came startlingly close, proof of the man's great upset, and it also showed, if only to Minerva, that the same memory-hound followed in his shadow, too.

Albus glanced around the crowd, taking in the accusing faces and assessing the situation. From there, he drew his conclusions, and not taking sorrow-filled eyes from the three bloody lines, he quietly, almost _harshly_ asked the Weasley boy what had happened.

The Fire Arts professor was starkly reminded of the same question posed to Tom Riddle so long ago. Riddle had been suspected by Albus all along, the Headmaster had confided in her one day, but the slippery serpent was truly worthy of the title 'Slytherin' and had evaded every attempt to pin the murders on him. Rubeus Hagrid had been arrested instead after Riddle had tried to play them all like puppets to dance around as he willed. And dance they did.

The evidence had been somewhat shaky and left little to stand on. But, really, who would believe it was actually Riddle, the very definition of a perfect student? In the end, no one.

Minerva wondered if this was the same case once more. Deep in her, she knew it was, but it was from a shadowed corner, thus something she locked away. Oh, how it flailed and raged in its cage, screaming out with ignored words. Nevertheless, it remained chained.

One image, though, broke free and was brought to the forefront of her thoughts: Harry Potter's gleaming eyes, terrifying in their similarity, on that very first day in her class. No, she told herself firmly, refusing to even think the possibility, Potter didn't do this; he had **nothing** in common with Riddle. That vile, bestial thing lurking behind the boy's gaze was merely a trick of the light. Nothing more.

X

**January 1, 1353**

Albus stared into the richly red wine in his glass as if it held all the secrets of the universe, alone in his office and alone in his thoughts. He would, on a normal year, be in the Great Hall with all his employees (the students were undoubtedly asleep by now, as it was _well_ past curfew) to celebrate the beginning of a new year. It was just past midnight, meaning that the party would still be going strong, and more than likely, it would do so for a few more hours. It was a rare occasion to let loose without consequence for a day, thus a time they waited for anxiously. Albus, too, would revel in this, generally acting like an age he had long since left. A brief smile quirked his lips at the remembrances of past January firsts. Ah, yes, there was that one time Minerva had shown off her skills in a spell for breathing fire...

However, it quickly dropped as he returned to his somber mood. Even if his employees could forget the recent events with drinks and merriment, they weighed heavily upon his mind, a great chain that threatened to snap his spine under its pressure. A distraction was now useless to Albus; there was no rope to climb in order to escape the abyss of his guilt. No line they cast could reach the bottom of this self-dug hole where he lay.

He thought of Tom Riddle, the abused and already lost little boy swimming in the lava of revenge and bitter rage. He thought of how he had let the child slip through his fingers, blinded as he was by memories of another boy, a friend he had lost in the most heartbreaking of ways. The face of his past lover, Gellert – oh, dear, dear Gellert for whom Albus' very soul ached – had superimposed over Riddle's at times, a testament to how similar they were. By the time he had realized his mistake, had shaken off the ghosts of his past, it had been too late. Riddle had already fallen, like sunset turning to the vast black skies of night, and nothing could save him, bring night to sunrise, now. Albus had failed once more and felt it most keenly, the almost physical pain that always brought an ocean of tears.

The murders and messages so starkly reminded the Headmaster of Riddle that, at times, he saw days gone by and not the halls of Hogwarts in the present. His past mistakes haunted him at every turn, making living like a nightmare that had escaped its prison in Morpheus' dream realm. Albus could not outrun it, as there was no room to run _to_, no safe haven.

One element from the present, however, followed him from nightmare to reality and back: Harry Potter. The boy, the one who was supposed to be a beacon and guiding light in these days covered by the thick fog of chaos rolling in, was not what he had expected, was _so, so_ far from Albus' vision. He **was** the very fog they sought to push back.

Though the combined masks of Riddle and Gellert placed themselves over Potter, Albus was not blinded again for a third time, actually _saw_ what lay in the boy. And, just like the other two, Potter had slipped from the Headmaster's gentle, caring grasp, as if he were a phantasm, an illusion unable to be touched by anyone, man or Spirit. He had been lost so long before his arrival at Hogwarts, and Albus regretted nothing more than putting Potter on the doorstep of his only living relatives, for he could place the blame only on himself. _He_ had caused these tragedies, had caused history to repeat itself in that horrible fashion humans only realized in hindsight. Albus didn't know if he could take any more, so ready to shatter as he was.

He vowed to himself in the silence that he would fix this, would not condemn the world with his actions once more. He had to do something to prevent the rise of another Lord Voldemort, of another Lord Grindewald, even if his heart hurt in doing so and pleaded with him not to stab it with another poisonous dagger.

It briefly occurred to Albus that he could simply kill Potter, take care of it before the disaster even started. He was perfectly capable of making it look like an accident, after all, and his many connections assured no blame would fall upon him. And yet, despite it being the most reasonable choice, Albus' mind and soul shied away from it, shunning the beginning of what could become a slippery slope to the very principles he detested and fought. Beyond that, it would be like killing Riddle and Gellert, too, and _that_ would destroy him for sure.

Fawkes, the phoenix, friend, and familiar who sat on his perch next to Albus' desk, crooned a slow and bittersweet song laced with a hint of something darker, a symphony of wailing violins and deep, bass-filled instruments. It wasn't his usual, uplifting type of song but fit the mood much more than that. It did not break Albus from his thoughts, rather pulling him into a twilight zone between memory, thought, and the present. Nevertheless, it soothed him when none other could. The tension in his body loosened some, his hunched shoulders lowering with that taste of relaxation.

"Thank you, dear friend," he whispered, voice heavy with exhaustion and also relief. Fawkes gave a little whistle, a high and happy ditty, in response, and Albus couldn't stop the small smile from forming. It was a fond and loving expression. "You always know, don't you?"

Turning back to his wine-divining, Albus felt lighter in spirit and even body, despite returning to his previous thought processes. And so, he planned.

X

**January 13, 1353**

Clawed fingers, as elegant as they were deadly, reached out to bat away his ice-daggers as if they were nothing but mere annoyances, sparrows to a mighty roc. The fingers became a hand and then an arm, all from Potter's electric chains. It was akin to a monster from another Realm, horrible and its power over the weak knowing no bounds, coming out of a rip in the fabric of reality, slipping past those guarding the natural order of life. It was something that _did not belong_ here, and he could hear the screams of pain, the wails of a Realm wronged, from everywhere and nowhere, a noise that grated on the ears and was _felt_ more so than _heard_. There was no doubt in his mind that every single living being – from the plants to the animals to the humans – was experiencing the very same thing at this moment.

They only grew louder, tugging on his soul as if to savagely **rip** it right out, when the arm grew to a distinctly feminine torso and a long, slim neck leading to a beautifully shaped head. And, _oh Spirits_, that face, a facsimile of human that fooled no one, held no _eyes_. There were no windows to the soul, as she _didn't __**have**__ one_.

_**Everything **__has a soul_, his mind screamed with the panicked confusion of one shown irrefutable evidence that their every principle was so utterly wrong. _How could it not __**have**__ one?_

Over and over and over, every cell in his body repeated a mantra like a prayer for a miracle in the face of Death's visage looming nearer with each second: _wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, __**WRONG**__!_

Ron Weasley knew true fear in those seconds that ticked on like eternity, a terror that no other experience for the rest of his life would be able to replicate.

Then, the creature spoke in an incomprehensible, hissing language that brought to mind the onyx scales of chaos and evil sliding over rough stone. There was a certain accent to her words, like the rumbling of thunder from a far distance underneath it. However, the storm was moving quickly and almost upon them with its acidic rain of fire and sun-blocking clouds, dark with the promise of destruction. It was unlike anything Ron had ever heard before, but he immediately could put a name to it – Parseltongue. His parents had once spoke of it when he was a curious six year old, his quest for knowledge unhampered by the rules and expectations of society. They had told him of the language that had spewed from Voldemort's mouth many a time on the battlefield.

_**Parseltongue is an unmistakable, vile tongue, my son**, she said with the look of one lost in nightmarish memories. She shuddered lightly with what he later realized to be fear. **It's used to speak to snakes and such creatures, and you know this instinctively upon hearing it.**_

_She looked at him with haunted eyes, weary with the burden of shouldering such heavy memories. Her gaze was weighted, and though it did not affect him at the time, it disturbed Ron these days whenever he dared look back to that moment. It made his skin crawl and his bones chill, not sensations he wished to feel voluntarily. Solemnly and in a way that suggested she knew it was inevitable but desperately wished it were not to be so, she said, **Pray you never have to hear it, Ron.**_

He now knew just how right she had been and adamantly wished that he could burn this from his brain, carve it out until this day forever remained blank. Unfortunately, this did not happen.

Potter responded to the creature, his hissing harsh with a tone of command, and his face twisted for a brief moment into something just as ugly and monstrous as his creation. It was a flash, almost too fast to be seen, and thus few picked up on it. Ron, gaze trained solely on his dueling opponent and unable to break away, looked further on and into the mindset of Potter. It was a world of black sky holding a sanguine moon within its starless arms, a world of endless ocean, calm on the surface but ceaselessly, furiously churning underneath the guise of tranquility. Beneath the lure of falsely undisturbed seas swam a monster as infinite as the ocean, stretching its limbs and influence everywhere it could reach. It had eerie green eyes; it had Potter's eyes.

After the boy's order, the unnatural creature retreated back to whence she came with obvious reluctance. There was then a stretch of stillness, all there frozen in silence in their inability to shake off the lingering feelings and images that, though seemingly impossible, were _very_ real. The Potions professor was the first to act with a command for everyone to get out right that instant. The students (with Lockhart, the coward, in the lead) filed out in a mindless fashion, stumbling into the halls of Hogwarts as their minds attempted to make sense of it all. Ron shuffled out in a similar manner and was the third to last to exit, lost as he was in his thoughts.

He, out of all the students (barring Potter, of course), though, understood the most just what had happened, and unlike them, the Weasley _believed_ in what he had seen. For, the burgeoning darkness within his heart, which had grown from an ember to a roaring flame almost with its own intelligence, had reached to Potter with infant arms, a baby asking for its guardian and the associated safety and _belonging_. It was as if that inkling of a shadow strained to join the larger mass, become one, perhaps. Ron dared not let it do so, afraid of the consequences, that he would lose his _identity_, but controlling it was like trying to hold an aleya in hands made prison. It would escape, fight wildly to get out and in the process would lead him on to his death with its enchanting, ghostly light, on to Potter. To resist would only destroy Ron, and yet true to typical human behavior, he tried to keep his self-harmful grasp.

He cursed Potter for what he could not control, for luring in the Weasley with a skull-and-horn lyre and sweet, dangerous notes. The instrument contained nothing, empty and hungering for lifeforce to fill it. And, against his will, Ron's being longed to be the one to give in. He would hold on as long as he could with all his might; it was a terrifyingly short amount of time.

X

**January 22, 1353**

Ron ached, not in a physical sense but close to it, as the shreds of his bindings upon the growing darkness continued to be tested by the monster's desperate, determined thrashing. As a result, he was constantly on edge, small instances of anger breaking free despite his efforts. It hadn't jeopardized his (admittedly low) ranking in the Slytherin hierarchy, but he had come _so_ close to doing so many, many times. It was a certain sort of torture, to be holding in almost all his comments and retraining his every reaction.

Because of this, he was currently wandering the halls, keeping to the ones he knew people rarely used. It helped that classes were in session right now. Ron was _supposed_ to be in his Wind Arts class, but at the moment, he couldn't stomach anything of the sort. He could not tolerate the forced company of his Slytherin housemates, their subtle sneers and silent jeers.

Though his House had an unspoken policy to stand as a united front in the public's eye (a 'divided we fall' sort of mentality), apparently, Ron's situation had sunk too low to completely ignore this. Their snubbing was not obvious, as _some_ of their self-assigned restrictions remained as to not lose their image, but nevertheless angered Ron. He could read the message clearly, for Ronald Weasley was _not_ an idiot. Nor a fool.

_You're not wanted here. Your kind will **never** have a place with **us**._

He – and here Ron sneered in disgust; at whom was yet to be seen, though – stayed in _his place_ for now, laying low in the shadows. At least, until he could **strike**. The Weasley disliked being snubbed so, and revenge, sweet retribution for their prejudiced rejection, would one day be his. However, he didn't quite have enough clout or power to pull it off properly, and Ron wasn't foolish enough to tell himself differently. One day, **one day**...

The Weasley's darkened eyes, peering from a stormy face, happened upon an unexpected sight after he turned the corner into a hallway not too far from the Fire Arts classroom. It was another corpse crumpled under a three-versed message in blood, eyes missing and their sockets scorched to the bone.

He vaguely recognized the boy as a sixth year Slytherin, one off the less known (and even less popular) ones that blended into the background and was oft forgotten. Even if he had been mostly ignored, the sixth year had a reputation of cruelty, the sort that came from a mind deranged from birth. The violence and sadism rooted in human nature had been greatly enhanced in him, making the boy someone to avoid if one valued their own health. Unfortunately, the boy's temper had a short fuse and left many victims broken in its awakening. In something just short of a miracle, Ron had not once interacted with his housemate and was grateful for it. If they had met alone in an abandoned hall or classroom, undoubtedly, one of them would surely be tortured, maimed, or even killed. And it wouldn't be the sixth year.

Now, however, in death, the boy looked terrified, as if his worst nightmare had reached long limbs into the material world to wrap tightly around him. It was an unfitting view but left Ron darkly amused. A malicious little grin curled his lips, and his eyes, shadowed almost to blackness, became hooded, the whole effect one of danger. He walked over to the body, his gait the fluid movements of a predator confident with the assurance of its natural territory. Standing in front of him and looking down with a condescending gaze, Ron said with relish, "I'd say this is a pity, Adrian Vesper."

He spit on the corpse, and it landed accurately on the black bone just over the right eye socket. With a kick to the dead Slytherin's hip that knocked him to lie limply on his side, Ron continued, "But, it obviously isn't."

He gave the other boy another hard kick for good measure and turned to walk away. It would not do to be caught as the first on the scene; he had learned from George. However, the Weasley had only taken four steps before a figure emerged slightly from the shadows of an alcove to Ron's right. The short body was obscured by the dark still, only the outline really visible – that and those eerie green eyes glowing brightly through, eyes that could only belong to Potter.

Ron tensed in wariness and caution with a hint of nervousness running through him like veins of precious metal through rock. His eyes narrowed and focused solely on Potter, as the mind behind them calculated his escape. Though logically he knew the boy was unlikely to report this back to anyone, the Weasley remained defensive, almost to the point of paranoia.

Also, the darkness struggled even harder to break free now that the bigger whole was oh so near, all the more reason to just _go_. However much his mind screamed _**run**_ in defiance of his instincts, though, he was rooted to the stone floor, unable to move his body even a centimeter. Somehow, he managed to get out, "What might you be doing _here_, Potter?"

The boy in question stepped forward, enough that the flash of sharp, yellowing teeth showed when most of rest did not. He asked in return, voice a purr like a velvet-covered sword, "I could ask the same of _you_, now couldn't I?"

Potter fully detached from the shadows, and Ron could swear he saw their black arms _clinging_ to the boy, like a lover reluctant to lose their beloved. He stalked to the still frozen Weasley and started to walk in a lazy circle around the other male, not so much a shark but instead a hyena. A shark, Ron knew, circled a bleeding meal impatiently and quickly, lunging with rows of deadly teeth on display without waiting long. No, Potter was indeed a hyena. He circled the lioness with a hard-won kill, laughing all the while and ready _at any time_ to make a move in challenge. Ever mocking, Potter was a patient hunter; he would wait if necessary to steal what he needed. No amount of time was too long if the prize was worth it.

Indeed, Ron felt like the lioness, helpless to watch as the predator trapping him waited patiently for his surrender of something hard-earned. His soul was the kill, and the Weasley was desperate to keep it. As Potter tightened his hold, though, this task became nigh impossible.

The boy finally stopped, ending at Ron's back. He could not see the hyena of a boy, but the breath hot on the nape of his neck, smelling faintly of rotting meat, gave it away easily.

"_Give __**in**_," he whispered against the other male's neck, the two words seductively crooned. And, _oh_, how tempting it was; so **tempting** the notion was. The darkness churned violently in Ron like wild rapids, screaming out for just that. The feeling of being _right __**next**__ to_ what it craved sent arousal coursing like lava through him. A small moan, hot and breathy, easily escaped the Weasley, loud and obscene in the otherwise silent surroundings. Potter whispered those two words again, even more seductively now, if that were at all possible. Ron's moan was louder this time as the arousal only heightened further, and from behind the thick haze around his mind, he could tell he was hard between trembling legs. Potter said them a third time, more of a command in the words now. It only served to undo Ron that much more. The boy bit the base of his neck, not a nip but a harsh clamping of sharp fangs on flesh that drew the tiniest amount of blood. That proved to knock down the Weasley's last wall.

"_**Yes**_!" he cried out with unrestrained need. And, finally, Ron Weasley gave into the darkness' demands. It was _glorious_.

X

**August 1, 1353**

Ron was sitting on his ratty, old bed, staring at the bare, wooden wall opposite him with a stony expression that disguised the deep, confused sorrow. He was completely silent and still as a statue, but he was probably the only one to do so in the Burrow, household of the Weasleys. From downstairs came loud, heartbroken wails, long expressions of fresh grief between the sounds of uncontrollable sobbing. He had woken up to these, and that had been hours ago. He, shortly after finding out the exact cause, had retreated here, not moving once in that time span. His thoughts surrounded him from all sides, exerting their gravity in a way that left Ron feeling compressed, something trapped in a box that was vastly dwarfed in comparison to the dimensions that actually fit.

His breathing was short and quick, driving him to the edge of hyperventilation but not quite over that cliff. Black intruded upon his vision from the edges, warning of what could come of this, but the boy paid little attention to this. Instead, he focused on the dreadful phantasm haunting him, the one that was always in view no matter where he went. Whether it was in the corner of his eye or blatantly in front of him, Ron could not escape the familiar – and yet so different – figure and could not escape the thin mouth framed by weary lines that taunted him so.

_Why didn't you do anything, you failure?_ it spat, the words venomous and like a dagger through his heart. It snickered, an echoing and hideous sound with the hoarseness of one that had not spoken in some time.

_**Admit**__ it_, it cooed, somehow managing to remain hoarse and yet gaining a smoothness that spoke of sin, _you never __**wanted**__ to do __**anything**__. I mean __**nothing**__ to you._

Dead eyes glazed with white pierced him, abnormally huge and fish-like in a way that made them alien to him. They didn't hold accusations, only a disturbing blankness, as if there were no brain behind them. Ron would have preferred the accusations to this foreign entity with the voice of his mother.

The voice turned harsh and deep, booming and rasping, and this suited the vision better. It asked with sadistic amusement in its tone, eyes and face not changing even once, _You never belonged here, __**did you**__?_

"No," Ron spoke, his own voice low and quiet. He could only vaguely be surprised at his easy acceptance of this fact, as he would not deny that he was no more a Weasley than Lucius Malfoy was.

The vision of Molly Weasley grinned widely, lips curling up in an almost-snarl to show off needle-like teeth. It was an impossibly large expression, the mouth stretching way past human limits, that took up the whole of its lower face. From between those deadly needles, it got out, _I'm __**so**__ glad you realize this. __**Good boy**__._

The noose tied around her skinny, bent neck turned to a single length of rope after that famous knot, and it winded upward to end two meters above her head in frayed strands. It twitched and swayed in the air like a cat's tail, slow and methodical. It strayed from this pattern now, whipping back and forth in an agitated way. Though, Ron supposed, it more likely to be in satisfaction.

The boy, at long last, got up with stiff, protesting muscles and made his way to the small window next to his bed. Its glass was extremely dirty, the kind that made it seem as if a gray fog had rolled in to block the view of the outside world. It would take a strong bit of magic to remedy this, indeed.

There was one spot, however, that remained reluctantly clear, revealing the outside because Ron had swiped his hand across it so many times in determination to look at freedom from behind his cage's bars. The hard work had, after a year or so, paid off, and it was well worth the trouble. He wiped off the latest dirt once more in a short but deeply important ritual. He got closer yet to it and rested his nose on the window while his eyes glued themselves to the scenery. He took it all in, but the view lacked the joy it normally held. Ron breathed in deeply, and though he smelled nothing but dust and a house ready to fall apart, in his imagination, all the scents of nature – the perfume of flowers, the freshly wet grass, the river babbling over mud and rocks, _everything_ – came to him. It was usually relaxing but only dissatisfied him more now. It reminded him of what could be but was destined not to, of the freedom he had lost long ago.

Disgusted with the situation and with himself, Ron violently pushed away from the window with a growl. He stomped the short distance back to his bed and threw himself unto it heavily. He could feel his phantom's gaze following him but ignored it the best he could. The boy, in his frustration at life, slammed a fist into the bed but gained nothing from it. There was the slight sound of paper ripping, and this drew Ron's attention to the issue of the _Daily Prophet_ from yesterday lying not too far away. He had read it countless times but nevertheless felt compelled to do so once more. He picked it up and, with a gentleness contradicting his current demeanor, smoothed out the wrinkles and carefully brought it to rest in front of his face. He read again.

_**Verdict Made for Hogwarts Killer!**_

George Weasley to Receive Sentence Tomorrow

VERONICA BLOOM_ – Today, after several weeks of deliberation by the Wizarding Court, the infamous Hogwarts Killer, otherwise named as George Weasley, has reached the end of his trial. Weasley was arrested in May, convicted for the murders of eight students at the Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry (see pg. 4 for more details on these tragic deaths). Another students, Ginny Weasley, his sister, was later reported to be missing, now presumed dead, and there is still some debate as to whether the Hogwarts Killer was involved in this._

_Since then, the Court has been examining this case critically and debating on Weasley's level of involvement. Albus Dumbledore, the headmaster of Hogwarts and the man to report these murders, was the wizard who told the Court of his suspicions. However, the exact evidence for this has not been made public at this time. When asked for a statement, Dumbledore declined from commenting._

_The Court, however, has issued the following statement: "We, as the justice system of wizarding Britain, always strive to uphold the law. It is our duty to bring the perpetrators of crimes to justice and punish them to the full extent of the law. After examining the evidence, we have found George Weasley to be guilty of all accused crimes and shall thus maintain our policy."_

_The Court had announced that Weasley will receive the Dementor's Kiss tomorrow at..._

At that point, as he always did, Ron stopped reading, the storm of a confusing multitude of emotions reaching a peak. He closed his eyes in an attempt to block it all out, this horror of a day that _surely_ was a figment of his imagination. But, even as his vision turned black and he sought to muffle the constant sobbing, Ron could not deny that this was reality. In the face of what this fact meant, he supposed tears should be flowing heavily down his cheeks, but such would not come. Sekhmet had breathed unto his face long ago, drying up the waters of sorrow in a place where he knew nothing but.

In the background, his specter cackled, as cold and harsh as the truth.

X

**January 21, 1348**

There was an old, old tale – a tale of the Spirits Before Spirits, of their creations, of their ruin. It was whispered of in ancient tomes, pages lost long ago to the ravages of time mostly. It had been whispered, also, among men, but their kind had long since forgotten this tale. Still, it lived on, though it was weak and fragile, for only one man knew it in its entirety. He had written parts of it, told each new generation, and yet, few believed him, most thinking it to be the nonsense of a ruined mind. Of those few, however, none heeded this tale's warning nor did they spread it themselves. It was sad and disheartening, but the man persevered on, telling the tale again and again in the hopes of someone seeing the truth one day.

Nicholas Flamel was a famed alchemist and the creator of the Philosopher's Stone. He was ancient behind his youthful face, having lived more than a thousand years (far more than he told the public), and was, as far as he knew, immortal. (He was of a cautious sort and was thus unwilling to bet his life on this. He was curious, yes, but he wouldn't go _that_ far.) He had discovered many new techniques, had invented things supposedly far ahead of the times, and had made a significant impact in advancing cultures. Yet, Nicholas did not consider any one of these his greatest achievement. No, _that_ title belonged to his _knowledge_, and of all that he knew, the alchemist thought the tale to be his greatest treasure.

Sitting alone in his study (one of many in the enormous castle he inhabited), he basked in the warmth emanating from the roaring fire to his left. Settling into his comfy, well-used chair, he gently opened the thin, brittle-paged book to the first, handwritten page. He had read it many, many times before, but it was worth the repetition. He read the first line and was enchanted all over again with the tale held within.

_Before the beginning, there was nothing. No life existed; no elements existed; nothing existed._

_Existence began with the emergence of seven beings. They were not of physical form and only existed in the same manner as Time. They simply were. With Them came the spawning of Time but not the start of it, for Time has no definitive beginning nor any definitive end. Also, there came the Realms. The Realms were Them, just as They were the Realms. There was one Realm for each of Them, but the Realms were formless and void._

_As Time passed, the beings became more aware. Their knowledge was vast, as They knew everything of Their own Realm. They too knew of the other six Realms, but this knowledge was less, for there was a gap between each Realm. These gaps had been made when They, and thusly the Realms, came into existence because the beings were separate from the Others. The nothing before the beginning had not ceased; the nothing could not be erased nor replaced. The nothing was in the places between each Realm, dividing and defining Them. The beings, even in all Their might, had little domain in this emptiness, called the Void, for They existed while the Void did not._

_As They became more aware, the Realms, being the same as Them, began to exist in a physical sense. The elements came into being with these physical parts of Them. There were only six elements, however: Fire, Earth, Water, Wind, Light, and Dark. They could not have all six of the elements in each of Their Realms, as three of the elements opposed the other three. Fire opposed Water; Earth opposed Wind; Dark opposed Light. The existence of two opposing elements in one Realm would turn that Realm back to nothingness. Thus, six of the beings took one element each._

_With the choosing of one element, the Realms continued to form but in different ways. The separation between the Realms' existence gave each of Them a personality different from the other six. So, They identified Themselves with a name for Their Realm._

_The Inferno Realm was home to the Fire element. It was filled with volcanoes from which flowed the lava that made up the surface. The air above the lava was hot from the warmth the surface below gave to it. The skies there were always red and held many suns, so that the light from them never set. There was less room in the Inferno Realm than the other Realms, for much of it was molten rock._

_The Death Realm was home to the Earth element. It was a light-less place, for there were no skies and thus no sun to shine upon that Realm. The whole of it was dirt and rock and gem with tunnels as the only means of travel. The Death Realm did not shift and only stayed as still as the unmoving earth._

_The Depth Realm was home to the Water element. There was only water in this Realm with no bottom nor top to it. There were no skies to cast light, so all of the water was as black as night. The whole of this Realm was still, for there was nothing to move the vast waters. It, of all, was the largest of the Realms, for no part was uninhabitable._

_The Tempest Realm was home to the Wind element. It was a chaotic place where there was only sky that forever twisted and churned. All of it was stormy, and there existed only gray clouds full of rain and lightning. There was much light in the Tempest Realm, but it did not compare to the Inferno Realm, as only one sun shone its rays there. This Realm moved the most of all and never stopped in this._

_The Shining Realm was home to the Light element. It was a simple Realm and without many physical traits. There were no skies, earth, nor waters. There was only a white expanse that seemed without border, though borders did exist._

_The Abyss Realm was home to the Dark element. It was too a simple place, where only black existed as the opposite of the Shining Realm. In there, no skies, earth, nor waters existed either. Every place in this Realm seemed to have its own borders, ones that felt like trappings but were not._

_The last and seventh Realm was absent of any element and was thus a neutral place with no special features. Instead, It combined all of the other Realms' attributes. It was called the Earthly Realm._

_The Realms stopped forming when Their borders were completely filled, but this did not stop the growth of Them. Though the Realms were now complete, They were still empty, for no life existed in Them. So, the beings began to create creatures of Their own. The beings with an element made many, many different kinds of creatures, though each with certain similar characteristics that defined them as one of their own Realm. The Earthly being made only a few kinds of simple creatures, but each of the kinds was very much separate from its brother._

_The creatures were all made with their own wills and minds, as they could not fully exist as part of Them. The ones in the elemental Realms cooperated with each other but only when necessary. Those creatures formed groups that coexisted in different places and ways. The Earthly creatures, however, did something else. Those ones coexisted in harmony, and all the kinds interacted with the others like the twining threads of a tapestry. They did so because they were simpler and not as varied as the other six Realms'._

_Time passed in the unique manner that it possesses, and the creatures slowly began to change into other, different creatures. Those in the six elemental Realms maintained the same level of complexity and did not change much at all. However, those in the Earthly Realm became more complex, and more types of creatures developed from the preexisting ones, each less simple than the last._

_As they grew less simple, the Earthly being began to understand emotion just as Its creations did, so when the Earthly being saw that Its Realm was surpassing the other Realms, It was pleased. The other beings also began to understand emotion but did so a great amount of Time later. When They had full knowledge of emotion, They understood what the Earthly being felt. They looked upon Their Realms and grew envious of the last Realm, for It had done something Theirs had not. They did nothing about it, though, because it was not a problem and because They were assured that Their Realms would too become less simple._

_The six elemental Realms progressed slowly and were still behind the Earthly when a another new creature developed in the Earthly Realm. These creatures did not start as anything unusual, but soon, they became quite unlike the rest of the Earthly creatures, surpassing even all of the other six Realms' creatures. They came to be known as humans._

_The humans were more intelligent and resourceful than the other Earthly ones and so came to rule over all the other creatures there. When the humans were spread across all the surfaces of the Earthly Realm, they were forced to compete for what was required for survival, for the humans were creatures that desired to gain as much as they could. Because of this, new emotions developed in the humans and in the Earthly being._

_All these new emotions were less simple than those that had first appeared, but these came with consequences. The new ones were shadows to the first emotions, for they built upon the first and then twisted the emotions into something darker. There were now greed, superiority, and many other emotions like these. The most different and black of these was one called hatred. Because the humans felt hatred, suffering and conflict came to exist._

_There were no such things in the six elemental Realms, and so the other beings grew worried. They feared such would come to pass in Their Realms but could not take action to prevent this, for They could not interfere. After Time again passed, Their fears became truths, as creatures very similar to the humans also developed in the other six Realms._

_For the first time since the beings came into existence, the six elemental Realms communicated through the Void to the five Others. They were concerned with the new human-like creatures in Their Realms, as Their knowledge was vast. They knew that these creatures would harm Them, for They could feel the pain of the destroyed parts of Their own Realms. The six beings knew that They could not interfere with Their creations' descendents, but the creatures needed to be stopped. They pondered for many days and nights upon this problem._

_However, the six beings were interrupted from Their pondering when They felt a disturbance in the Earthly Realm. As They could not look into the last Realm without much difficulty, the six elemental beings sent one each a single creature to the Earthly place. They could not interfere and so could only use their mighty powers to guide Their representatives. The Inferno, Deathly, Depth, and Tempest beings were able to get Their own creatures across the Void, but the Shining and Abyss Realms were unable to do so because Their chosen beings had greater willpower than the other four. Those two creatures had been chosen specifically for this quality, so that the humans of the Earthly Realm could not control them, but the Abyss and Shining beings underestimated the amount of willpower each of Theirs had._

_It was very, very difficult for the creatures to cross the Void and still live, so the four Realms had to use a vast amount of Their energy to do so. Afterward, They were tired and weak, for Their energies were finite, even if They held much of it._

_The four representing creatures made it to the Earthly place in safety and immediately began to search for the disturbance their Realms had felt. After several days and nights, they found the disturbance and were repulsed at what the Earthly being had done. It had broken the rule of not interfering, for the Earthly one had again created another new creature. It had made one that was almost exactly like the humans, but these creatures were even more complex. They were called magicals._

_The Earthly one had long been jealous of the elemental Realms, and a resulting hatred had grown in It. So, It had given the magicals special capabilities, taken from the Earthly being's own powers. These special powers allowed the magicals to manipulate the Realm around them as if they too were from one of the elemental Realms. This went against the natural order of all the Realms, for the Earthly being had not been granted any element at the beginning._

_Though their powers were still weak, the magicals were able to overcome the representing creatures. The magicals were greedy and thus used all their combined might to take away the elemental powers of the four foreign creatures. This made the magicals stronger because they could now claim for themselves one element each, and they could now manipulate more than they ever could have before. However, when the magicals took on an elemental affinity, they found that they could not manipulate the element opposite of their chosen one. Because of this, they tried to find a way to closely mimic what the opposite one could do but only found ways to create new types of power. They used these new types by combining two of the three elements available to them._

_Soon, though, the magicals grew bored of only manipulating their own Realm. Thus, they sought to reach through the Void to control the creatures of the other six Realms. At first, they could not do so, but then the Earthly being lent more of Its energies to Its favorite creatures, giving the magicals the strength to pull powers from the four Realms through the Void and into themselves. The magicals could not contain all the power they pulled into themselves and so used it to do feats no other Earthly creature could do._

_They grew more greedy still and longed to control the creatures of the Abyss and Shining Realms. With more energy from the Earthly one, they succeeded, but the magicals could only manipulate the Dark and Light, as well as combinations with the other four elements. They could not take on either of these two as an affinity._

_Time passed differently for the Realms, as They were infinite in Time and thus Time had little meaning to Them. So, it was a long while before the six Realms realized that the four creatures They had sent had not returned. The six elemental beings were worried, for something must have gone wrong. The representatives had been loyal to their own Realm and none other and so their desertion was not a possibility._

_They discussed amongst Themselves how to proceed and came to the decision that it was necessary for another creature to be sent. The disturbance in the Earthly Realm would not go unchecked. They decided this time to send only the representative of one Realm because They were weak and tired, and only with the combined power of all six could They send another representative. Their combined powers would indeed be mighty and could have sent more than one creature, however if They only sent one, then the Realms would have a small amount of power left. They were cautious and knew that They could not become even more weak and tired, as there could be a later use for it._

_The beings debated which of Them was to have Their creature sent. Each had a single valid reason why Theirs should be chosen, and so there was a stalemate for many days and nights. While the Shining, Abyss, Tempest, Depth, and Deathly Realms were arguing, the Inferno being stayed silent. It sought to find another reason for Its creature to be sent and thought about this, unlike the Others._

_Finally, the Inferno being ended the argument when It presented another reason to the other five elemental Realms. They agreed with the Inferno Realm after hearing this, for none other of Them could come up with another reason. Finally, the Inferno being picked a creature from the many in Its hold and the six elemental Realms used Their combined powers to send this creature._

_When the creature arrived in the Earthly place, that Realm immediately was aware of this intrusion. It had been unaware of the four creatures sent previously, as this happening was unexpected and the Earthly being had not experienced such a thing at the time. However, It had learned from these mistakes and could recognize the presence of the Inferno Realm's creature._

_The Earthly Realm was angry at this and wanted for this intruding creature to be destroyed. It did not send any of Its own, though, for this foreign creature was stronger than those that had been sent before. It decided to instead fix this problem by Its own might. So, the Earthly one began to drain the Inferno being's creature of its lifeforce. The creature struggled and fought this mightily but was of little match to a Realm. In an instant, the representative was dead, its power added to the Earthly being's own._

_What the Earthly one was unaware of was that the creature's connection to its Realm had been severed. With the breaking of this link, the Inferno being became aware of Its creature's death. It too became angry and called to the other five elemental Realms to inform Them of this. After They were told, the Realms also grew angry, but They also became suspicious. They did not know why the Earthly being would do this but understood that nothing good could come of it._

_While They discussed this issue, the remaining Realm finally decided on what to do with the Inferno being's power It had gained. It would create a few new creatures, ones more powerful than even the magicals. These creatures' designs would be grand and filled with all the Earthly being's ideals. The creatures would also be more loyal to It, never once straying as most of Its other creatures had done. And so, the Earthly one began to create._

_As the Earthly Realm created more creatures, the other six Realms felt a disturbance there for the second time. These six beings immediately felt that something not allowable had happened. They quickly came to a single decision: the Earthly being had to be stopped. However, the only way They knew how to do this was to seal the Earthly being and partially separate It from Its physical parts. To do this, they would need to use every bit remaining of Their power, as the Earthly one was a Realm and a Realm's power was only rivaled by another Realm. Also, the Earthly Realm was stronger because the six elemental Realms had used almost all Their power to send the Inferno Realm's creature while the Earthly one had expended little power of Its own._

_The first disturbance had been a brief sensation, but as the Realms discussed Their future actions, They could still feel the second disturbance's presence. This proved to hurry the six elemental Realms, as They could tell the situation was becoming dire._

_Through the Void, the six elemental Realms strained to reach the Others and just barely managed to do so. Their powers all twined together into one mass, not any one element but instead a greater energy without affinity. In this new power's neutrality, it was stronger than a single element and could do any purpose laid upon it. Using all the power within Them, They made as much of this neutral energy as They were able to without destroying Themselves._

_It took all of Their willpower to send the energy to the Earthly Realm and to give it its purpose: to bind the Earthly one in a place separate from Its physical Self. The energy went across the Void and into the Earthly place to surround all of that Realm. It then bore down upon the being and forcefully dragged It from Its physical Self, making two where there had once been one. The Earthly one was caught unawares, as It was still carefully creating the last of Its new creatures. The Realm was subdued by the sent energy after a great struggle. The Earthly one was bound to a special pocket of existence the energy created that lay between Its physical Self and the Void._

_The energy used all of its might in this task and thus could not prevent it when the Earthly one took with It the last creation It had made. The creature was also bound to this new place but only loosely, for the energy's purpose had not included this in its task. So, the creature existed there but also half-existed in its Realm of creation's physical Self._

_After doing these things, the energy disappeared, ceasing to exist in any sense. Because it had not returned to the six elemental Realms, They were without this power, and that caused great consequences. The six elemental beings were forced to go into an eternal slumber. This slumber hardly affected Their Realms' physical Selves, but They could not do anything there for the rest of Time, and so Their physical Selves did not advance, merely staying stagnant. No new creatures developed, and the ones already existing did not change through the generations. Because They slept voluntarily, there existed no way in which to wake them._

_However, such was not the case with the Earthly one. As It did not slumber of Its own will, the Earthly being was not truly sleeping. There was a possibility that It would awaken yet a very small one. But, it was certain the last Realm would one day come back to Its physical Self._

Nicholas abruptly glanced up from his reading material, a faintly startled expression gracing his face. His whole body was frozen while his thoughts raced about wildly. He had felt a strange sensation, an extremely brief one but something he automatically recognized. He hadn't felt this in a very long time but could remember it as if it were a memory of the day before. It was a shift in the very flow of magic, a change in placement that could still no doubt be felt across all seven Realms. The great tapestry of the Fates had been altered.

X

END of Fragments of Yesterday II

_NOTES_:

"**...like the Morning Star, trapped in darkness and ever-awaiting the chance to break loose, to rain down fire across the lands. This entity was an evil that could not be given any other title."**: This is a reference to Judaic/Christian mythology. Everyone probably knows about Lucifer (or, to many, just Satan), but just in case you didn't know about this, he was also called the "Morning Star" (either that or Lucifer means Morning Star... whatever). Or at least, when he was still on the right side of the fence (and not dwelling in eternal fire underground). The "Revelation" section of the Christian handbook clearly states that Satan will be back (Terminator style!) one of these days. And apparently, his way of saying hello is destruction.

"**...with the voice of a kelpie, calling sweetly from deep, black waters of death to ensnare all those listening in his net."**: The kelpie is a creature from Celtic mythology. It's a horse that lives in the water and lures people in with its voice. Then it drags them into its lake or pond or whatever body of water to drown them. Children taste especially yummy. (I'm sure I've already covered this in a previous chapter, but I figured the refresher would be nice.)

**The bloody love note from Riddle in Minerva's flashback**: Okay, this admittedly went on longer than I wanted it to, spanning _three verses_. Ugh. So, the **first verse**: The first two lines are a taunting question. The next four describe the basilisk from the Chamber of Secrets coming to kill people ("ferry to carry the lifeless") with a hint about its golden eyes that do the killing ("gold not of metal collects"). **Second verse**: The lynx thing is a nod to the victim's Gryffindor House membership... in a vague sort of way. Since the lynx can symbolize divination, it fits the best. The part with "jackal-headed Seth" is about the Egyptian god of the dead. The fourth line, on the outside, details that the victim's death was inevitable but, on a deeper level, references Riddle's preferred name ("vol de mort" is "flight from death" in French). The last two lines are a warning to those that speak out against his killings ("speak of hope's light") and how if they do, they'll be swimming with the fishes. Shut up or die, basically. **Third verse**: It's a fairly obvious meaning here: the next victim is number six and no one but the killer knows who it's going to be.

"**...seeing the soul and future just as a real lynx did."**: I looked up what various animals symbolized on the internet and found the meaning of the lynx somewhere. I don't really know if any of this is true, but the site said that lynxes symbolize "Keenness of Sight, Divination, Developing Psychic Senses, Keeper of all Secrets and Mysteries, Movement Through Time and Space, Secrets and Vision of the Hidden and Unseen." I thought it fit rather well.

"**The masses parted silently around him as he walked to the focal point of their attention, like earth and sky parting before their creator. He seemed to grow taller, in spirit and in the students' perceptions, as they did so... She wondered if Albus' remaining self, the shell of a man disguising itself as strong, would diffuse into the school and its occupants, further shaping his beloved land."**: In Chinese mythology, there is the story of Pan Gu, the guy who created the world. In this, the world started out as a "big black egg," according to the site I found, then the sky and earth were created with Pan Gu in the middle. He grew taller and taller as the two began to separate further and stayed between them so that they wouldn't touch. Eventually, he died and all the parts of his body became different parts of the world (one eye became the sun, the other the moon; his blood became the waters; etc.).

"**...like a nightmare that had escaped its prison in Morpheus' dream realm."**: Morpheus is a figure from Greek mythology. He reigns over dreams (obviously, considering he _is_ the god of dreams). This reference is pretty much a "no duh thing."

"**...mere annoyances, sparrows to a mighty roc."**: A roc is a creature from Middle Eastern mythology (the wiki wasn't really all that specific). It's a giant (and I mean _really_ huge) bird of prey. Marco Polo (the dude, not the game) was responsible for popularizing it in the West. Sparrows, for those of you without them nearby (lucky you), are tiny birds that actually exist in the real world.

"**Everything had a soul, his mind screamed..."**: This isn't a reference to any mythology but rather the fic itself. In _Scourge_, wizards and witches are taught that everything has a soul, no matter the Realm.

"**...the onyx scales of chaos and evil..."**: This is a reference to the evil god Apep from Egyptian mythology. He was quite an evil guy – or rather, snake. He was the embodiment of chaos and evil and did generally evil stuff. Yeah, he's evil.

"**...like trying to hold an aleya in hands made prison."**: An aleya is something the Bengali people call strange happenin's in the marshes. It's also called a "marsh ghost-light" and generally scares the shit out of people. Apparently, it's thought to be a strange sort of gas or the spirits of dead fishermen. Either way, it'd be a pretty hard thing to hold onto.

"**...luring in the Weasley with a skull-and-horn lyre and sweet, dangerous notes."**: This is a reference to the kissar. I was looking up harp references in various mythologies and found this. The kissar is a lyre made out of human skulls and gazelle horns and originates in central Africa. Some tribes believed it held a soul inside.

" **Sekhmet had breathed unto his face long ago, drying up the waters of sorrow..."**: Sekhmet is a goddess from Egyptian mythology. Her breath supposedly created the desert, and deserts have a distinct lack of water. Also, she's based off of a lioness, which is admittedly fitting for this chapter.

**The Spirits Before Spirits**: I forgot to mention this in my writing but that whole scene was about the Old Ones (something mentioned last chapter). I didn't specifically name them as such, but it's nevertheless true.

"**The great tapestry of the Fates..."**: Most, if not all, mythologies have somebody that dictates fate or destiny or whatever they call it these days. There's the Moirai of Greek mythology, the Parcae of Roman mythology, the Norns of Norse mythology, and others I'm not going to mention. This reference could realistically fit any of these and so I shall leave it to the reader's interpretation.

**TBL**: Hope it lives up to your standards, people. I was going to write most of this differently, as per the original outline made, but then decided to change a lot of things. You should be glad. XD Looking back, I can see it was horrible before. Anyways, you should pay attention to this chapter and remember it well because it foreshadows many, many things yet to come and also sets up for further plot elements.

I kept forgetting this but now I remembered, so to all those wonderful people who reviewed (happy or not): thank you very much! I'm sorry if I didn't reply to each and every one of you but know that all of you are appreciated.

**The few. The proud. The strong. The reviewers. Be a reviewer today. Help your writer.**

_7/11/2012_


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